


The Christmas Spirit

by BrynTWedge



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Dinner, Decorating, Fluff, Gay Sex, Guardian Angel, M/M, Not as angsty as themes suggest, Pining, References to Depression, Spirits, Suicidal Thoughts, Time Travel, but just for plot, every day is christmas, idea originally based on 'it's a wonderful life', so kinda had to start with him on a bridge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-05 01:02:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 59,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16800571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrynTWedge/pseuds/BrynTWedge
Summary: It's Christmas Eve, a month after Sherrinford, and Mycroft Holmes is on a bridge contemplating ending his life. A spirit comes to him to stop him - but she is just doing her job, and not particularly well. In order to make less work for herself, she takes Mycroft into the past to stop Greg doing the same... and leaves him there until he finds a reason to live.Mycroft is stuck experiencing his own personal hell where every day is Christmas, and Greg falls in love with his 'guardian angel', who comes to him every year on Christmas Eve to help him through the holiday.





	1. December 24, 2015 - Mycroft

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! This idea originally was based on 'It's a Wonderful Life', but then morphed into some kind of Groundhog-day Christmas amalgamation. 
> 
> I hope to post one chapter a day until Christmas, but it's not all written yet so please forgive me if I fail. 
> 
> It starts off with some darker themes, but trust me it gets lighter and fun. There's not a lot that can be done when the story starts with Myc on a bridge going to jump. 
> 
> Alternates POV from Mycroft to Greg each chapter.

Mycroft looked over the water. It was freezing, but he barely noticed the chill. It felt much colder inside his body than out. His breath froze in the air as he sighed deeply.

He’d never enjoyed the Christmas dinner. He downright hated it some years in his life – particularly those following Eurus’ supposed death, and the ones where Sherlock had endangered his life from drugs which was somehow his fault for allowing to happen.

On the face of it he thought he’d welcome not being invited. As it happened, it made him feel more alone that ever.

Sherrinford was only a month ago. The wounds were still fresh and bleeding. The pain being shared had brought him and Sherlock closer together than he’d imagined possible. He’d thought that Sherlock would have wanted him around at Christmas, at least.

 _Be at peace, be grateful, be joyous_ … they were all themes for the season that he couldn’t feel. His life was a mess. His family have essentially disowned him, and seem to be much happier without him. People at work were still aching for his blood. He couldn’t just keep it together anymore, and so lost his position. He was still employed, of course, but in a different capacity.

He closed his eyes as his heart gave a painful stab. _Gregory._ The kind Detective Inspector with whom he was still madly in love. He’d made a mistake there, too… pretending to be fine when Gregory had come seeking him. He desperately wanted to lean on the man and accept the support he’d been offering, but the internal rules dictating his behaviour demanded he keep a stiff upper lip, like a good British man, and dismiss the implication of suffering.

Mycroft had to admit he hadn’t thought Greg had bought it, but the Inspector had still left him and not attempted again. Granted it hadn’t been long, but wasn’t two weeks long enough for a disappearance to count as suspicious? Concerning, even?

_I can’t keep doing this. I’m not wanted, obviously, and there is little point in trying anymore. Trying my best was never enough. There’s nothing more for me here._

He gripped the railings tighter as he prepared to climb over.

“Mycroft Holmes. Don’t do that.”

Mycroft stilled and his heart began to pound. He didn’t know that voice. No one who knew him knew he was there.

He snapped his attention to the sound of the voice, only to see a young woman casually lazed over the edge of the bridge, her back propped up against a pillar. Mycroft was taken aback with her appearance. Clad in black leather from head to foot, she wore a long studded jacket, pants adorned with functionless belt straps, and large black boots that came up to half her calf. Piercings and other silver metal adorned her face and body, she had spiked white hair, dyed bright blue at the tips, and wore a mildly disinterested expression. _Punk,_ his mind supplied automatically. As if he knew much about it anyway.

“Who are you?”  
“Tempest,” she answered with a shrug.  
“How do you know who I am?”  
“It’s on my list.”  
“What list?”

Mycroft had to blink incredulously as she suddenly had a clipboard with a few sheets of paper attached to it. She showed it to him as way of an explanation.

“Where’d you get that?”  
“My inbox, duh,” she huffed. “Says here that you’re supposed to be a genius.”  
Mycroft huffed indignantly. “And why would you have my name in your inbox? Who gave it to you?”  
“Admin. Look, are we gonna do this all night?”  
“Why, have somewhere important to be?” Mycroft snapped back quickly, only realising afterwards how unlike him it was. He then slumped as the fight left him upon realising that he honestly meant it – he believed that being here, talking to him in the last moments of his life (or even attempting to stop him ending it all), wasn’t important.

“Yeah, I do, actually. But it’s been made clear to me, many times, that I have to save that for my off hours.”  
“What? You’re not making sense.”  
“To you, maybe. But making sense for you isn’t really my concern.”  
“Look. I’m really not in a place to handle talking to you right now. I don’t care how you know me, or who sent you, but I’m done.”  
“I get that. But I can hardly come back later, now can I?”  
“Why do you need to be here at all?”  
“Man you really don’t cotton on like I’d expected. It’s my _job_. We don’t get to pick and choose like you do.”

Mycroft found his temper rising at the woman, but then chuckled as his brain likened ‘temper’ with ‘Tempest’. _Aptly named, it seems._ He then frowned, and looked at her. “What, exactly, is your job? I don’t envision anyone in my department hiring you.”

The woman, Tempest, smirked at him and propelled herself off the edge of the bridge to stand and walk over to him. “I don’t expect you to understand, I mean, you’re only human.”

Mycroft tensed slightly at the way she’d stressed ‘human’, as if it were derogatory. He’d often thought it _was_ , but then Gregory had come into his life and managed to convince him otherwise.

“Well,” Tempest continued, ignoring his question, “at least you’re one of the more interesting ones. My wife makes it easier on me and picks out the cases that’d be up my alley. Fuck she’s brilliant. She’s an Admin, of course. Goes through the cases and assigns me all the gay ones. You’d be surprised how much harder it is when you don’t give a fuck if anyone knows you’re a lesbian and whomever you’re working with has a problem with it. _Humans._ ”

Mycroft didn’t know what to say to that. He’d never particularly cared if people knew he was gay… he certainly never attempted to hide the fact, and was actually comforted knowing that Tempest was similar to him in that regard. He was more uncomfortable with the woman’s odd implication that she was not human – the strange work talk aside.

“You seem to harbour dislike for humans,” he said carefully.  
He eyed her intently as she responded. “Not all of them, obviously. But I _cannot_ deal with the pricks that only accept the way they look, and their way of life, and hate anything else. Seriously, when I’ve had cases like that I fucking wanted to let them off themselves. How they got into the system I have no idea; ‘suppose the Selectors don’t find it a problem, with whatever consideration processes they use.”  
“What are you _talking_ about?” Mycroft shouted, utterly confused, frustrated, and a bit scared.

“I’m a Winter Light Spirit,” she said simply. “My job is to come to people and help them get through the dark of winter.”  
Mycroft snorted. “So a Christmas spirit has come to save me? What, you’re going to show me how precious my life is now, by showing me how things would have been if I’d never existed?”  
“I am _not_ a Christmas spirit!” Tempest snapped. “Just because you lot decided to put a holiday in the middle of winter, doesn’t make me part of it. I’m not an angel, guardian or otherwise. I’m not a bleeding ghost of Christmas either. I might be able to do things you’d call ‘magic’, but if you even once call it ‘Christmas Magic’ so help me…”

“Touchy subject?”  
Tempest growled. “People get expectations of us from their own storytelling. It’s annoying. But no, to answer your question, I’m not going to show you what it’d be like had you never existed like that film you’re talking about. Why? Because you’re a smart man. You know that it’d have no implications on your current situation. Seeing how important you _were_ isn’t going to keep you around _now_. Things are still shit. Everything you wanted to escape is still there.”

“At least you get it,” Mycroft mumbled.  
“I’ve been doing this a long time.”  
“I still don’t believe you.”  
“I really don’t care if you do or not. Not gonna change what I am, though.”  
“I’m not in the mood for mind games.”  
“No, I’m not either. I just need you to not kill yourself, and then I can be on my way.”  
“Oh, is that all?”  
“Yep. So we good now?”  
“What? No! You can’t just show up and say ‘don’t do it’, and expect all to be well! You literally just said things are still the same.”  
“Ergh if I’d known you’d be a handful, I’d have started with someone else,” she groaned.

Mycroft was left speechless. Who the hell was this woman? She was treating this intensely serious emotional moment as some kind of _chore_. He couldn’t believe the speech about being a spirit. Some people just liked to screw with other people, and he concluded that was a more likely explanation.

“You can bloody bugger off then,” Mycroft snapped.  
“Heh,” she chuckled. “Knew you had a bite in you. Why not use that attitude to stick the finger to whatever reason’s making you do this?”

He sighed. “There’s no point. It’s just… over. I’m alone. I’ve spent my life looking out for my family only to have none of them even want me anymore. It’s all I’ve cared about and there’s just… even Sherlock, the main reason I did… I… I can’t keep fighting when everything ends like this. I’m not the man I was anymore. I’m a failure. There’s nothing ahead that I can see worth still struggling for. ”

“Geez I didn’t ask for the extended cut,” she bemoaned.  
“You are atrocious at this,” Mycroft sneered.  
“Yeah well it’s not like I chose this job.”

Mycroft said nothing, still not willing to believe her explanation. Tempest took in a deep breath. “But what about the people you leave behind?” she asked in a stilted tone, as if reciting questions from a list she’d had to learn and repeat many times. “Have you thought about what your death would do to them? Could you really knowingly cause them pain?”

“I’m not leaving anyone behind,” Mycroft answered miserably. “I just told you. They don’t want me. Sherlock really was all I had and he abandoned me to spend Christmas with our parents and his new partner. He doesn’t need me anymore. I’m _tired_ of this.”

Something in his tone must have struck a chord with the woman, since she focused her attention more on him. She shuffled so she was against him, leaning upon the bridge railing. They both looked out over the Thames.

“Surely there’s someone out there who’d miss you?”  
“I… I can’t be sure.”  
“Well, is there anyone _you_ care about out there?”

Mycroft clenched his jaw and swallowed. He then nodded softly. Tempest nudged him with her shoulder.  
“There you go. Why not spend time with them?”  
“He doesn’t want to spend time with me,” he said quietly.  
“Alright,” she said simply.  
Mycroft felt disappointed that she hadn’t tried to argue against him.

“But do you care more for him than yourself? I mean, you _are_ about jump off a bridge, so your self-worth must be fairly low.”  
“Obviously.”  
“Then why are you electing to cause him pain instead of bearing it yourself?”  
“I…” Mycroft initially tried to argue, but found himself coming up short.

He’d expected that if someone had tried to talk him down, they’d tell him that he was important and that his life was worth living, that he just needed some help. He had _not_ been prepared for someone to play on his belief that he was worthless in order to guilt him into not causing pain for the one he loved.

“I’m a lost cause,” he breathed. “I don’t want Gregory to find me in the morning and cause him pain but I… I…” Mycroft stopped himself before he started crying. “Gregory Lestrade is a strong man. He’ll get through it. He doesn’t care for me like I do him.”

“Wait… Gregory Lestrade? I’m sure…” Tempest suddenly had the clipboard in her hands again, and Mycroft only then registered that it had disappeared. His gut twisted as he started to think that maybe the ‘spirit’ explanation was possible.

She lifted up the first sheet of paper and peered down. “Gregory David Lestrade?”  
“Yes,” Mycroft answered, uncertain.  
“He’s on my list too.”  
“What?”  
“Oh perfect. You can do the work for me.”  
“Again, what?”  
“Well you’ve just basically said you want to throw away your life. So consider it mine now.”  
“No!”  
“Well, then, off you go.” She waved her hand over the bridge. “But you’ll not be able to help Greg from down there.”

Mycroft squinted at the woman. He did not enjoy being manipulated, but he had to admit she was doing a damned good job of it.  
“If he’s on your list, why don’t you go help him instead of wasting time with me?”  
“I’ll level with you, mate. Do you honestly think I’d do a better job of stopping him taking his life than you would? Given how successful I’ve been with you?”  
“No.”

Tempest nodded at him and then stepped back from the railing. “If you don’t find something worth sticking around for afterwards, you’ll still have the chance to jump. You’ll be back here in this moment.”  
Mycroft nodded at her and then shook his head. “Wait, what do you mean, ‘back here in this moment’?”

She just smiled at him and clicked her fingers.

Everything changed. He was no longer leaning against the railing of the bridge; he was standing on the land, looking down across to the other side… and it wasn’t the same bridge. Everything looked… the same, but different. He didn’t know what it was… the night was still freezing, the city lights still shone, but it wasn’t right.

Tempest was still standing beside him. “There he is,” she said, nodding to a figure standing on the bridge.  
“Greg?”  
“Yep. You’d better go up to him if you want to help him.”  
“He’s… just like… how could…”  
“Oh stop babbling and move!” She shoved him forward, and then disappeared.

Mycroft swung around. “Tempest?” There was only the dark edge of the water.  
“Come _on_!”  
He turned to face the bridge again, seeing Tempest standing there, much closer to the lone figure. He trotted up to her. “You…”  
“Yeah, ‘magic’, I told you. Now… help him.”  
“What am I supposed to say?”  
“Not as easy as it seems, eh?” Tempest said pointedly. Mycroft just rolled his eyes.

He swallowed and took a step closer. A car drove by, illuminating the figure for a brief moment. Mycroft stilled. It was Gregory, but as he looked as a young man. His hair was dark brown, not brilliant silver, and his body was slightly leaner. Even from a distance, Mycroft could tell that the man’s face wasn’t as worn with lines.

“What… that’s Gregory, but… in the past! What have you done?”  
“I don’t understand.”  
“He looks twenty years younger! You’ve taken me back in time!” Mycroft couldn’t believe he honestly just snapped that. He was sure he kept his voice low enough not to be heard, but it was difficult given how much adrenaline was surging through him.  
“Yeah? Is… is that a problem?”

Tempest looked honestly confused, as if she legitimately didn’t think it’d have been an issue… or even a consideration. Mycroft was flabbergasted. He opened his mouth and closed it a few times. He wanted to scream ‘yes’, but a voice in his head (the part that wasn’t having an overload from realising he’d _travelled in time with a spirit_ ) told him that he’d be there for Gregory any time.

“Look, you can stand there gawking like a fish or you can make yourself useful.”  
“Can… can he even see me?”  
“Why wouldn’t he?”  
“You know… ghosts and stuff.”

Tempest pursed her lips and squinted at him. She radiated annoyance. Her eyes flickered behind him and her demeanour changed. “Well, if you are going to do anything, I’d suggest doing it _now_ ,” she sung.

Mycroft cocked his head at her, and then turned around to see Greg climbing the railing.


	2. December 24, 1992 - Greg

“Greg, no!”

Greg froze. His heart was already pounding, but it seemed to leap into overdrive. He flashed his head over to where he’d heard the voice. A man, tall and in a three piece suit, was bolting towards him. The moment Greg looked at him, however, he stopped, as if afraid any sudden moves would make him jump.

“Please, come down.”

Greg still didn’t move. He was stunned that not only had this man come from nowhere, but knew his name. “How do you know me?” he asked, scrupulous.  
“I’ll explain, I promise. Just come down.”  
“Why?”  
“I… if I come closer, will you stay where you are?”

Greg nodded slowly, and watched as the man took cautious steps in his direction.

“My name is Mycroft. It’ll take some time to explain how I know you, though… and you’ll likely not believe me anyway. Please; let me take you away from here and we can talk somewhere warm.”

Greg saw how genuinely scared the man was, which meant that he cared beyond what a stranger would (or someone he knew in passing, enough to just recognise him). Curiosity was nibbling at the back of his brain, but he still remained stuck half-way up the railing.

“I’m not about to lock you up. I-I know what’s probably going through your head, and so I’ll tell you that you can always still listen to me and come back here. You can’t do it the other way around.”

He had to admit the man, Mycroft, had a point. He strangely trusted him on his word, despite barely being able to see him properly in the dim light. He exhaled slowly and returned his feet to the ground.

Mycroft ran up to him and grabbed him in a firm hug. He seemed very distraught at the idea of almost witnessing his suicide, and so Greg was left to wonder just in what capacity he knew the man. _It’s possible the cloud of depression is just not letting me remember._

~

Greg wasn’t entirely convinced that the man ( _Mycroft,_ he kept telling himself) was all there in the head. He kept looking about as if looking for someone, or to speak to someone Greg couldn’t see only to stop whenever he noticed Greg looking.

It was only the fact that Mycroft kept within arm’s length of Greg, and continued to look concerned, that made Greg stay.

They’d taken a taxi to a house – Greg didn’t pay much attention to where – since there wasn’t anything open after nine on Christmas eve. At least the benefit of being depressed enough to attempt suicide was that he didn’t care about being taken to a strange man’s house. What was the worst that could happen? He was murdered? That’d be a better outcome than what he’d intended only half an hour ago.

“You have a nice place,” Greg commented. It was small, dark, and honestly had he had the ability to feel anything he’d be terrified because of the décor. It looked like a dungeon, or cell, that had been outfitted to look sleek and modern.

“It’s kind of you to say. This isn’t my usual abode,” Mycroft said. He placed a cup of tea in front of Greg.  
“You have more than one place in London?”

Mycroft looked sheepish, but nodded. He then joined Greg at the table with his own mug. “I keep this place for times I need to be at work again quickly. My usual residence is somewhat far from work. It is…” Mycroft paused to think. “A safe house, of sorts,” he concluded.

Greg nodded. _Apt, given the circumstances._ “Who are you?”  
“A difficult question.”  
“Why?”  
“It is normally, let alone these circumstances.”

Greg frowned, but honestly couldn’t find himself to care too much. He just took a sip of the tea. It was nice and warming.

“I occupy a minor position in the British Government,” Mycroft continued.  
Greg looked around, and then raised an eyebrow. Mycroft chuckled and smiled.  
“Quite. You had a similar expression when we met and I said that.”  
“I still don’t remember you.”  
“Ah, yes, well… I don’t know how to tell you this next part.”

_Do I have some kind of amnesia? Is he important to me somehow? The way he looks at me… were we involved? He’s a bit older than I would usually consider, but he is definitely attractive. Great, now I’m imagining kissing him._

Mycroft didn’t seem to have noticed Greg’s lapse of attention. He kept staring at a place in the corner. Greg had to force himself not to look there. He knew there was nothing there, but felt that he shouldn’t draw attention to Mycroft’s staring.

“I can’t tell you. I wish I could, but if I did you wouldn’t believe me and it’d make this really awkward. Just… I care about you, Gregory. Deeply. You have a lot ahead of you.”  
Greg slumped. He’d started hoping that he actually had some connection to Mycroft. He could use a little hope of having something important in life about now. “Doesn’t seem it.”  
Mycroft pursed his lips and looked at him with a pained gaze. “Why?”  
“Everything I try… leads to nothing. Year after year I try, but I always end up in the same place. What’s the point of continuing to try? Tonight wasn’t just about Christmas and being upset about not having a family to speak of. It’s been just a culmination of my entire life and that extra fact just pushed it over the edge.”  
“No family? But you have a caring mother, a sister, and a niece and nephew?”

Greg looked at him incredulously. “What? No. A mother, yeah, but not one that wants me. Hasn’t since I was a teenager. My sister? She’s off doing her own thing and doesn’t want anything to do with me either. I don’t know what you’re talking about with the niece and nephew; she doesn’t have kids.”  
“Right, not yet,” Mycroft muttered.

Before Greg could ask how Mycroft knew that, the man spoke again. “I wasn’t aware. I’m sorry, Gregory. I honestly hadn’t realised things were so difficult for you at this time in your life.”  
“The things you say, Mycroft… you make it sound like you know the future.”  
“In a way, I suppose,” Mycroft answered.  
Greg rolled his eyes. “If you did, then you would know that I don’t last much longer. I’m just wandering about, no clue where I’m going, and just waiting for it to be over.”

Mycroft reached across the table and grabbed his hands. “I know to you I’m just a stranger from the bridge, but I implore you to get some help, Gregory. You have so much potential, if only you were well enough to realise it. None of this is your fault, but you _can_ get better. And I know you will do amazing things.”  
“Oh and I suppose you’re my Christmas guardian angel, then? Appearing out of nowhere and telling me that I have a lot to live for? Or are you supposed to be the Ghost of Christmas Future? Telling me that there’s so much ahead for me?”

Mycroft clenched his jaw. “I would not have thought you’d believe in ghosts or angels,” he said measuredly.  
“You’re not telling me you are, though, right?”  
“I…” Mycroft looked over to the corner. “I’m just someone who can see the pain and wants to help. Sometimes just that is enough to make a difference.”  
“Being alone in it is the hardest part,” Greg agreed. Mycroft hummed and nodded.

“I’ll stay with you.”  
Greg looked up from his tea to see Mycroft’s expression, completely sincere. “I don’t have a family to take care of, or to care for me, either. I’ll be with you for Christmas. You needn’t be alone.”

Greg considered his options. He could just thank the man for the tea and leave. Then, he could go back to the bridge, or, well, anything. But something in his gut was telling him to trust Mycroft. His heart wanted to spend more time with him, even if it was just to keep appreciating his lovely eyes. There was the deeper part of him, though, that had been desperate to spend the holiday with someone who actually cared about him. Mycroft, somehow, was that.

“Alright,” he found himself answering. Mycroft perked up at that. “Yeah. I don’t know you, but you seem to know me, and what else is there for me? I think I could use the time to try and get to know you in return.”  
“That’d… I’d like that.” Mycroft beamed at him. “Thank you.”  
“This place isn’t very Christmassy, though.”  
“No,” Mycroft said, frowning as he looked about. “Apologies. I was never really one for decorating, and I wasn’t expecting to be here for Christmas.”  
“I never bothered after leaving home. Didn’t seem much point in it, really. Not when it was all…”  
“…Reminders of what you didn’t have, or of things you did that you’d rather forget,” Mycroft finished.  
“Yeah.”

It seemed strange that this man, who clearly did have money, could empathise so well with his situation. He breathed in and smiled. “Well, maybe we could decorate when we have things we want to remember?”  
“That sounds nice. Tonight is one I would like to remember.”  
“Hm, then we’ll need to put something up for it, then!”  
“I don’t have anything,” Mycroft reminded. “And the stores are not open.”  
“A man like you surely has connections,” Greg joked.  
“Not anymore,” Mycroft answered, sighing and drooping. Greg stopped smiling, realising he’d struck a nerve.

A thought occurred to him. “Mycroft,” he started quietly, “why were you on the bridge tonight?”  
Mycroft looked up at him, his eyes sad. “Same as you,” he responded softly.

The air grew tense between them. Greg didn’t know what to say. His throat felt tight. He knew how Mycroft could understand his position, now. He had a moment of realisation; if he’d gone to the bridge later and seen Mycroft there, about to jump, he would have tried to stop him. He wouldn’t have just gone and joined him there.

Suddenly Greg felt a great deal more respect for Mycroft. He probably wouldn’t have gone to these lengths to take care of him had the situation been reversed. A determination bloomed in his chest to look after Mycroft, and it was the first positive emotion he’d felt in a long time. He enjoyed it.

“Come on,” he said, standing.  
“Where are we going?”  
“To a park.”  
“Why?”  
“We’re getting a decoration for this year. It doesn’t have to be your traditionally Christmas kind; we’ll just go and pick a stick together, or a branch, and bring it inside.”

Mycroft looked mildly shocked. Greg laughed. “I guess you’ve never done poor man’s Christmas. Come on,” Greg extended his hand for Mycroft to take. “You’ll see it’s not so much about what it looks like, but what it means.”

Mycroft smiled and reached out to take his hand. He stopped, briefly, looking back to the corner. He then placed his hand in Greg’s. Greg wanted to ask about the corner, but he felt like he wasn’t going to like the answer… and so just left it. If Mycroft had other mental health problems, hallucinations for example – well, Greg wasn’t exactly in a position to complain.

They left the flat, and walked about until they came across a park. It wasn’t large, but it had trees. Greg tried not to think about how much he enjoyed holding Mycroft’s hand as they walked. There weren’t many people about, if any, and so he felt comfortable showing that little bit of affection in public.

“Here, this’ll be good,” Greg said, bending down and picking up a pinecone. “And it’s not even broken! Oh, no, wait, just a little.”  
“It’s perfect,” Mycroft said softly. “We’re all a little broken. Still worthwhile, though.”  
“Yeah. Yeah I think you’re right,” Greg answered.

There was a moment shared between them full of emotion and promise. Greg smiled, handing over the pinecone. It meant more that Mycroft was saying these things after revealing sharing Greg’s despair.

“Where shall we put it?”

It was a surprisingly loaded question. Greg thought about it. They could go back to Mycroft’s, or they could go to his flat. If he was honest, he’d like to go back to his place. It was, even having been stripped in anticipation of never returning, still cosier than Mycroft’s cold rich person’s dungeon.

“I have some string in my flat we can use to hang it up with,” he suggested.  
Mycroft didn’t react initially, but then shyly smiled. “Sounds good. Lead the way?”  
Greg took Mycroft’s arm in his own, and strolled out towards the tube station.

The absurdity of letting a man almost twice his age into his flat, on Christmas eve, to hang a pinecone up, seemed to hit Greg as he opened the door.

“Are you alright?”  
“Yeah,” he answered quickly. “I-I just didn’t think I’d be coming back, is all,” Greg explained. It wasn’t exactly untrue.  
Mycroft squeezed his arm gently. “It’ll be alright, Greg.”  
“Thanks, Myc.”  
Mycroft looked at him strangely… almost as if it wasn’t him he was looking at, but someone he instead knew intimately.  
“Above the window,” Greg said to break the moment. “The pinecone. It’ll go good there, I think.”  
Mycroft followed Greg into the flat, and looked about. “I agree,” he said gently.

~

Greg woke, looking about. He’d fallen asleep on the couch with Mycroft. Who was no longer there. He sat up and groaned, rubbing his forehead. The previous evening seemed so crazy it was almost like he’d been dreaming.

They’d hung the pinecone, which was still dangling over the window. Then they’d sat and talked. Just talked, but it was the most open Greg had been with someone in a very long time. He was almost hurt that Mycroft had up and disappeared before morning. Not that they’d done anything… it still seemed strange, to Greg, that he felt so connected to someone twenty years his elder whom he’d just met.

The two bottles of wine left in the house had been drunk well into the night. They remained on the coffee table. It was almost reassuring, to see the physical evidence around him that what had transpired wasn’t just a dream.

A noise snapped his attention out of his mind and into the house. Mycroft walked back into the room, looking dishevelled, but otherwise content. Greg beamed.

“Hey,” he said clumsily.  
“Merry Christmas.”  
“Oh, yeah. Merry Christmas.”  
“Forgive me for not having a gift for you.”  
“We just met last night, Myc.”  
“Yes,” Mycroft answered hesitantly. He sounded like there was more he wanted to say, and so Greg just left the silence to hang. “I am unsure what to do now.”  
“About what?”  
“I don’t know.”

Greg patted the couch. Mycroft walked over to join him. Greg lent forward on his knees as he looked at his… friend? Companion?  
“You look lost.”  
“I am,” Mycroft admitted quietly. “This is all uncharted waters for me.”  
“I hear you,” Greg answered. He hadn’t expected to have to face today, or the next. Strangely, somehow, he was feeling like it was less of a challenge.

“Maybe you should ring your mother,” Mycroft uttered.  
“What?”  
“Last night. You said you wished that you’d been invited to Christmas with her.”  
“I’d had a bit of wine… yeah, ok don’t give me that look. Alright, I do. Yeah. I know it shouldn’t matter to me, but it-it does.”  
“It absolutely should matter to you, Greg.”

He felt warm from the reassurance. Validated.

“What about you? You said you wished your family accepted you. Maybe you should reach out to them, too?”  
“I can’t,” Mycroft breathed. “Please don’t push it. I can’t.”  
“I’m sorry.”  
“No, I know it’s right for you to say it considering I’m telling you to do the same. Circumstances are different, though.”

Greg bit his lip. “Well, if your mother is out of the question… what about your brother?”  
“Sherlock? What about him?”  
“Spend the day with him. You told me you love him dearly, and that you have spent your life since he was born trying to take care of him. Just because he resists, doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you back.”  
Mycroft nodded. “Maybe. I could go and see him.”

“I-I’m scared to call,” Greg said into the silence. Mycroft took his hand.  
“It’s Christmas. To most people, that means a day for family – no matter what has happened in the past.”  
“You think it’s possible to start again? That gap’s so wide now I can’t remember what made it that big.”  
“I do. It’ll be slow, and it’ll not always be easy, but I think you’ll find what you need if you give yourself the chance.”

Greg could hear the hidden pain in Mycroft’s voice, but left it. He nodded, and took a deep breath. Mycroft had been right when he’d said last night that giving up was easy. Committing to staying alive was hard. Ringing his mother felt like he was doing that. He wasn’t sure if he’d say what had almost happened, but maybe he’d explain feeling alone at least?

“Will you be here while I call?” Greg had to bite back the voice that told him he sounded like a kid needing his dad to hold his hand.  
“If you wish.”  
“Ok. Thanks.”  
“What will you say?”  
“I… I won’t mention last night,” Greg said. “But I think I’ll just start with Merry Christmas.”  
“A good start, yes.”

Greg got up and walked into the kitchen.

“Where are you going?”  
“I’m calling her now.”  
“But… oh.”

He tried not to think too much about why going to the phone would sound strange to the man in the three piece bespoke suit – obviously, he had a mobile phone, but it’d have to be extremely expensive and bordering top-secret to fit (unnoticeably, at that) in the man’s pocket. Greg shook the ideas of M16 spies from his head, picked up the receiver and dialled.

~

“Christmas dinner,” Greg announced as he returned to the living room where Mycroft had sat.

“I see,” the man responded, initially hesitant, but then breaking out into a smile. “Be sure not to hide everything, Greg. I think you’ll be surprised; your mother might offer to help more than you’d expect.”  
“Maybe. Was that your brother, on your mobile phone?”  
“Hm?”  
“I heard you talking while I was in the kitchen.”  
“Ah. No, I was not speaking to my brother.”

Greg kept his mouth shut and nodded. He got the distinct feeling that Mycroft didn’t want to talk about it further. Was he not supposed to know about the top-secret device? _I am trying to be a detective, I mean of course I’m going to notice him talking to thin air._

He suddenly felt awkward; what was the procedure for things now? Generally when he’d have someone over after a date, it’d be either continuing the intimacy or a hurried goodbye. He didn’t really have mates over, and he definitely never had strangers stay the night. For some reason it sat uncomfortably to call Mycroft a ‘stranger’.

“When do you leave?”  
“Um…” Greg did some quick maths in his head. “Should probably get ready in a couple of hours.”  
“Good. Erm, yes, that’s very good. Shall I, er, that is–”  
“Stay,” Greg interrupted. “Until then. I mean I know you could have places to go, but I’d love it if you stayed and we could, I dunno, have Christmas morning together.”  
Mycroft smiled at him genuinely. “Sounds wonderful.”

“I don’t have anything in, sorry. Didn’t want to leave anything to go mouldy, you know.”  
“Understandable. I don’t believe I could get anything sent, and my flat also does not have anything in.”

Greg bit his lip and nodded, feeling solemn. He’d forgotten, almost, that Mycroft was in the same position as him. “That’s ok,” he said as he sat on the sofa. “We’ll just sit and spend time together for a bit. Don’t need presents or food for Christmas morning. We’ll talk and bond, have some nice understanding company. It’ll be just you, me, and the pinecone.”

Mycroft chuckled. “You are a remarkable individual. Yes, that’d be good. Company.”

Greg grinned, and if he had the thought of leaning forward and pressing a kiss to Mycroft’s lips, then, well… he didn’t object. He just kept it to himself.


	3. December 24, 1993 - Mycroft

“Mycroft, pay attention.”

Mycroft groaned and opened his eyes. Tempest was there, prodding his arm. He growled and shuffled on the couch. “Go away.”  
“I’d love to, but I can’t.”  
“Just take me back to the bridge. I’ve helped Greg, and so I’ve served my purpose.”  
“Yeah, you helped him, which was good. Didn’t kiss him though.”

Mycroft dramatically rolled his eyes and sat up. “Well of course not. He’s twenty years younger than the Greg Lestrade I know.”  
“So you’d try something with the one in your time?”  
“No.”  
“Why not?”  
“He…” Mycroft was overwhelmed with a list of reasons why Greg wouldn’t be interested in him. “He deserves better.”  
“Well you’re not really in a position to make that call for him.”

Tempest stretched and rolled her shoulders. She looked more bored than anything about the entire situation. It triggered Mycroft’s annoyance.  
“If you’re so uninterested, you can just take me back and leave me alone.”  
“I can’t.”  
“Why not?” Mycroft huffed, crossing his arms.  
“Well, for one thing, you have to go and see Greg again.”  
“I told you, it’s no good. He’s not the right age. I won’t meet him properly for years yet. He’s obviously forgotten all about me, since he never recognised me.”

Tempest’s disinterest changed to mildly impressed. “You have a better understanding of temporal mechanics than most people.”  
“Of course I do!” Mycroft snapped. “I have a better understanding of most things than most people! Which is why I can’t for the life of me work out why I’m going along with this… this… _fiction_. I’ve obviously collapsed somewhere and am hallucinating or dreaming. This can’t be happening.”

“Urgh,” Tempest groaned. “Not this again. Look, I don’t give a shit if you believe it or not. Just do your job and look after Greg. Who knows? You might find something worth sticking around for after all.”  
“I don’t work for you! You can’t tell me to do anything. If, and I stress _if_ , this is real, then you’re the one that’s supposed to be working.”  
“Alright, don’t get snappy. Fine. You want to go back to your lonely existence? Back to that bridge? Let’s go. But you’re abandoning your Greg Lestrade by doing so. And what’ll you do when you get there, hm? Jump?”  
“Yes,” Mycroft sneered.

Tempest fixed him with a glare. She flared her nostrils a few times, but instead of the shouting Mycroft expected, she leant back and smirked.  
“Your life is mine, then.”  
“What?” Mycroft was sure he looked as affronted and confused as he felt.  
“You’re going to toss it away. I caught it. It’s mine now. I can do with it what I want.”  
“That’s not–”  
“Ah, no. Quiet, princess. I make the rules.”  
“How dare–”

“Or what?” Tempest threatened. She stood, her small stature only reaching above Mycroft’s height because he was still seated. “You’re in my world now, buster. It’s 1993. You don’t have any minions, any money, or any friends. Anything you do involving your belongings from this era would arouse suspicion that you can’t cause lest you find yourself detained as well as screwing up the timeline. You’re stuck here until I deem otherwise – killing yourself now isn’t going to stop it; you’ll end up right back here until I’m through with you. So you can sit there, shut up, and pay attention.”

Mycroft was stunned. He shut his mouth, frowning. No one had spoken to him (besides his mother) like that in a long time. He took a few deep breaths, then frowned and looked back up at Tempest.  
“It’s _1993_?!”  
“Duh, thought you’d worked that out.”  
“I didn’t know exactly when…”  
“Why? Is it important?”

Mycroft clenched his jaw. “No, I suppose not.”  
“Good. I can tell there’s more to that but I honestly don’t give a damn. I’m more focused on the now. Can’t really afford to have more strikes on my record at the moment. Though I gotta say, you two make a cute couple so I’m rooting for you. Don’t expect me to do shit about it though; that’s up to you.”  
“It strikes me that you don’t do ‘shit’ about much,” Mycroft grumbled.  
“Heh, yeah. So you can imagine how much I’m loving this, eh? Just popping by to make sure you’re not screwing things up majorly.”  
“I really wish you wouldn’t. Greg can’t see you, and I don’t want him to think I’m crazy.”  
“Yeah so, as I said, probably steer out from the whole ‘I’m from your future’ thing, then. But really, he’s going to work out something’s not normal. Eventually.”

Tempest looked as if considering something. “It’d be interesting to see how long it’d take, actually.”  
“Hold on…” Mycroft lifted his finger, ready to tell her off. She just snorted when she looked at it. “I’m not here for your amusement!”  
“Actually that’s exactly what you are. It’s not like you can get out of it. You’re just a puppet to dance at my will,” she laughed, wiggling her fingers in front of him.

Mycroft glared at her. “I take it that your ‘will’ is not something I would enjoy.”  
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” she sung. “You’ll thank me in the end.”  
“No, no when people say that it never ends up going well.”

Tempest ignored him and smirked. “Greg’ll be here soon, so you’d best get yourself sorted.”  
Mycroft nodded, and then froze, frowning. “Wait, what? Why?”  
“Because I’ve made sure of it. You’ll appear near him every year until you get it. Bye.”  
“Wait!”

Mycroft stood as Tempest disappeared before him after a casual wave. “Get what? Tempest? Get what? What am I supposed to do?” He looked around, noticing that it wasn’t where he thought he was. “Where am I? Tempest!”

The lock sounded in the door, and Mycroft tensed. He didn’t get a chance to decide what he was going to do before a weary Greg Lestrade stumbled through the door, bottle of scotch in his hand.

Mycroft remained frozen in the living room, watching Greg groan and toss his keys into the bowl on the hallway table. The man then paused, as if sensing Mycroft’s presence, and then snapped his attention in the direction of the dark living room.

“Who the hell are you? Get the fuck out of my flat! You sure picked the wrong place to rob, buddy…”

Mycroft squinted as Greg flicked on the lights. The man looked worse in the light; he had bags under his eyes, a sunken posture, and a despondent demeanour. Greg remained still, staring in shock until a moment later, recognition dawned on him.

“Mycroft?”  
“Greg. I, er, I apologise for…umph.” Mycroft was instantly tackled in a bear hug. _Not the reaction I was expecting, but certainly positive.  
_ “I don’t even care that you broke in. I’m just glad to see you. It’s been… hard, to say the least. I’ve been thinking of you. Hoping I’d run into you. We kinda parted without exchanging any information.”

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft mumbled sincerely, still enveloped in the hug.  
“’S alright,” Greg sniffed. _He’s crying? Goodness, it must have been a difficult family dinner indeed._ “You’re here now.”  
“Yes.”

Mycroft felt a bit uncertain what to do. He wanted to help calm Greg, but knew the man was in a dangerous and fragile state still and so didn’t want to screw it up. _I screw everything up_ …

“I, er, I had started to think that you were all just a figment of my imagination,” Greg said timidly, releasing Mycroft. He looked sheepishly at his feet. “That I’d come back and drunk myself to sleep, dreamt it all up… or that I did see you but it was all in my head. I-I still put the pinecone up again, though. Just in case, you know?”

Mycroft looked up at the window where the pinecone dangled. He wasn’t sure why Greg would have taken it down just after he’d left, but was glad that their time together had made enough of an impact for Greg to consciously choose to remember it.

“Did you want to sit? You can tell me how it went.”  
“How what went?” Greg sat on the couch, putting the bottle on the table.  
Mycroft joined him, resisting the urge to hug him again. “Your family dinner.”

“Didn’t go this year. Last year was… difficult. Mum was nice enough, but it was just too hard to pretend to be happy, you know? The looks I got when I let the mask drop, thinking no one could see me… I-I didn’t want to go through that again.” Greg took in a deep breath and sighed. “But at least they asked me to come around on boxing day, for lunch. I think it’ll be, yeah, be good. Less pressure than last year and all.”

Mycroft scrunched his face in confusion. “Last year? I thought you hadn’t been invited for years?”  
“Yeah, before last year’s one.”  
“Oh, forgive me. I believe I have misunderstood you,” Mycroft mumbled, retracing the previous evening in his head.

Greg chuckled. “You think too much.”  
“That would be accurate,” Mycroft responded with a smile. “Perhaps I consumed more alcohol than I anticipated, for I…” He trailed off as he saw Tempest appear in the doorway to the bedroom. She was giving him a peculiar look, one of awkward tension as if admitting to a mistake.  
“Mycroft?”  
“Sorry,” he said, returning his attention to Greg. “I was merely… thinking.”  
“Yeah, I got that. Too much, I’ll tell you. Mind, you probably have to, for your job and all. I dunno what you do, Mycroft, but it’s all big and top secret. Your clothes, your tech, hell even your name. Did you know I tried to find you? I thought, hey, it’d be fairly easy to find a ‘Mycroft’, but nope. Would have helped if I’d had a surname, admittedly. So tell me something, Mycroft, are you a spy?”

Mycroft instantly wanted to respond with ‘no’, but something else niggled at his brain. “I’m sorry, you tried to find me? In the...” he looked at his watch, “nine hours since I saw you?”  
Greg gave him a disbelieving look. “What?” he spluttered, confused. He blinked a few times, and then fixed Mycroft with a steady gaze. “Mycroft… that was Christmas day last year.”  
“What?”  
“Last year. I met you on Christmas eve _last_ _year_. It’s not been nine hours… it’s been a year and nine hours since I saw you.”

Mycroft felt like his brain had crashed. He remained sitting there, his thoughts unable to process further. He looked over to Tempest, who shrugged guiltily.  
“Was gonna tell you, but eh, thought it wouldn’t be a big issue,” she said.

“Not a–” Mycroft caught himself from snapping back at the spirit in Greg’s company. He snapped his attention back to Greg. “That is, um, right. A year. Not, uh, not what I had realised,” he said slowly. He knew how ridiculous it sounded, but it was the best he could do.

Greg looked uncertain. “You… didn’t realise that it’d been an entire year since we spoke?”  
“Oh, um, right that would be ridiculous, wouldn’t it?”  
“No matter what you say now I’m going to think that you didn’t.”  
“I-I-I… well, you know, s-sometimes it’s… you know how you can be so busy you don’t realise how much time…” Mycroft hung his head and sighed. _No, there’s no way to explain this._

He stood quickly and made to leave. “Sorry. I’ll just–”  
“No! Don’t go.”  
Mycroft stopped, turned, and looked at Greg, who’d stood up in protest. The man’s voice sounded desperate.  
“If you wish.”  
“It’s just that I wasn’t expecting to see you. I’m glad you’re here. I know it sounds stupid, but last Christmas… well, the part with you… it was good. Yeah. Better than I’d had in ages.”

Mycroft allowed himself a small smile while hearing the words.  
“And um, well, spending it with you again would be a hell of a lot better than what I had planned.” Greg flushed and indicated to his bottle of scotch.  
“Alright. That’s fine with me.”

Greg smiled, relieved, and sat on the couch. He motioned for Mycroft to join him. “So, not spending time with your brother this year either?”  
Mycroft had to think. It was 1993, so that meant he was with Sherlock at their parents’ house. “Yes and no,” Mycroft answered ambiguously. Greg didn’t push it further.

“My flat still isn’t all that festive,” Greg admitted into the silence.  
“That’s fine. We can go looking for another decoration this year?”  
“A stick to go with the pinecone?” Greg chuckled. “If you like.”  
“Yeah,” he said with a fond smile. “That sounds good.”

~

They found the stick, a small one with a bit of lichen on it, and returned to Greg’s flat. They sat on the couch sipping scotch and talking by candlelight and the dim lamp in the lounge.

Mycroft found himself staring too often at Gregory, admiring the view. The man was indeed handsome young, but he lacked the striking silver maturity that he’d gained in age which gave him a specific distinction. It wasn’t often, he figured, that men became more attractive with age. Anyone who had the good fortune to win his heart would certainly strike gold (or, more accurately, silver) in that regard.

It was hard to look into those eyes and see so much pain. Mycroft didn’t really know where it’d come from, but it hurt him to see it still there. They were youthful, but still those of a man who’d seen more than his fair share in life.

He wanted nothing more than to hold Gregory’s hand as they sat there. He wanted to cuddle close and kiss him. Yet, there was an absence in those same brown eyes which left Mycroft feeling sorrowful. This Gregory didn’t know him, nor had he experienced the whirlwind that was Sherlock. It was hard to look into the face of one he’d loved for so long and not see any recognition at all.

Before he knew it, it was midnight. Greg blushed and uttered ‘Merry Christmas’ to him, but shied away from any potential touch. Mycroft couldn’t help but feel a longing, but then scolded himself. _I was hardly attractive in my prime. This young beautiful man would certainly not want me as I am now._

Greg changed the CD in the player to another Christmas track.  
“I love rock music and a bit of pop, but it’s just not the same with Christmas stuff. I feel like it has to be the traditional stuff.”  
“Traditional how so?”  
“Choirs, orchestras, some of the classics by Nat King Cole, Frank Sinatra, Barry White… you know.”  
“Quite a range of traditional genres, but I agree with you regarding the pop songs that are released around this time of year,” Mycroft said with a smirk.

Greg returned to the couch and leant forward, smiling. He swirled the liquid in his glass around, watching the amber liquid swirl. He then looked pensive and frowned.  
“Why are you spending Christmas with me again?”

Mycroft was struck by his tone; reserved, nervous, and emotional. He leant forward and put his glass on the table. He then looked at Greg, not hiding any of his feelings.  
“Because I care about you, Greg.”  
“Doesn’t explain why you’re here, instead of with your own family.”

_I am with the only family that wants me, even if it’s only in my head,_ Mycroft thought to himself. He took a deep breath while considering his answer.  
“I’m with the only person whom wants me around,” he said.  
“You speak of your brother a lot; surely he would want you around?”  
“You don’t know Sherlock,” _yet_ , he added in his mind. “He might care deep down, but still has a brash attitude. He’s with my parents at the moment, where it was made clear to me I was not welcome.”

“I’m sorry. Yeah it’s hard to be with him if he’s with people who object to your presence.” Greg waited a moment, and then looked at him. He opened his mouth, but then sighed and looked back at the table. “Did you tell him?”  
“Hm?”  
“About last year. What you were about to…”  
“No. I went and saw him, but we didn’t talk.”

“Sorry. I don’t know why I brought it up. I guess… I was just wondering why you’d choose to spend your Christmas with me. Surely _anyone_ else would be better company.”  
“Greg,” Mycroft said, taking the man’s hand. He instantly felt a rush of adrenaline, but braved keeping a hold of the warm skin. “You are wonderful and I truly enjoy spending time with you. Having issues at this time of year doesn’t make your company bad.”

Greg smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Mycroft knew he couldn’t believe it. _I hope I can make him see it eventually_.

“Bedtime, I think,” Greg announced to break the tension.  
“Oh, right. Certainly. Thank you for letting me stay on your couch.”  
“Yes, of course. No worries.”

Mycroft didn’t let himself hope that he’d actually heard the smidge of disappointment in Greg’s voice.

~

Christmas day was enjoyable, but didn’t have the underlying charge that the previous evening had. They ate breakfast, took a walk, and watched a Christmas movie. Greg prepared some turkey he’d bought – a frozen breast portion – in the oven, and they had a late lunch.

It was more enjoyable than any Christmas Mycroft had spent with his family – no wondering about keeping secrets, no anxiety over what his mother was going to pick on about next, no worrying about what Sherlock had planned or was hiding, no awkward silences, and no need to keep up appearances and expectations. It was relaxing.

Mycroft found himself rather disappointed when Greg was rounding off the evening, claiming a need to rest for the family gathering in the morning. He could tell Greg was trying to send him on his way politely, and he didn’t want to make it any more awkward by staying.

“Can I have your number, this time, Myc?”  
“Um, sorry I can’t give it out.”  
“Oh.”  
“No, it’s not because I don’t want to give it to you,” Mycroft continued quickly. “Honestly. I just… can’t.”  
“Right. Stupid, sorry,” Greg mumbled.

Mycroft frowned. “I’m sorry, Greg. I would want nothing more than to be able to see you every day, but that’s just not the situation. I don’t know what’s ahead for me.”  
“I understand. But… I will see you again, right?”  
“Yes. Later… or sooner.” Mycroft cringed internally at the wrongness of the order, but it was the most truthful way to say the sentiment.  
“You’re a bit odd, Mycroft. But I like you.”  
Mycroft smiled brightly. “I like you too. Until we meet again.”


	4. December 24, 1994 - Greg

Greg wished he had a book. Something to pass the time. Instead he lay there, in the hospital bed, alone and with nothing to occupy his time as Christmas Eve passed him by.

The door opened, and he expected a nurse to take his obs for the evening. Instead, in strolled Mycroft. He looked rather confused.

“Mycroft?”  
“Gregory. I… I was just…”  
“What are you doing here?”  
“Er… seeing you, obviously,” Mycroft responded, but it was without any derision. To Greg, it sounded more like he was assuring himself of that fact.

“Yeah, I worked that out,” he laughed. “I was more surprised. I haven’t seen you since last Christmas. This is becoming a habit.”  
“Right.”  
“Well, take a seat,” Greg said, waving to one of the seats.

Mycroft nodded at him, walked towards the chair, and then froze on the spot. He looked about, and then started scanning Greg intently as if only just registering that he was lying in a hospital bed.  
“Oh, god, Greg… are you alright? What happened?”  
“I’m fine,” Greg reassured. “Just a little stabbing.”  
“What? Where? How bad?”  
“Relax, Myc. I’m seriously alright. They stitched me up and all. Just here for observation and rest until they release me.”

The man in the suit ( _was it the same suit, even?_ ) slowly finished seating himself. Greg kept smiling, not caring if it seemed strange. It was already odd enough that Mycroft appeared in his life _again_ on Christmas Eve.  
“Twice is coincidence, three times is a pattern,” Greg mumbled.  
“I’m sorry?”  
“I’m beginning to think you’ve got a plan to come see me every year.”

Mycroft looked about. “Would that be so terrible?”  
“No, no… it’d be good, really… but it’s a bit weird, Myc.”  
“I know.”  
“Why can’t I contact you when _I_ feel like it?”  
“It would not end well,” Mycroft said, a seriousness to his voice that made Greg pause.

Greg then chuckled, trying to diffuse the tension. “What, I’ll end up in Homicide but on the wrong end?”  
“I can’t assure you it wouldn’t happen,” Mycroft uttered.  
“Oh,” Greg said, unsettled. “Well… I guess you’ll have to just come see me instead.”  
“I do.”  
“I meant throughout the year.”  
Mycroft looked at his knees. “I can’t.”

Greg felt deflated. “Not even a few times? I-I miss you, Mycroft. It’s hard without you around, knowing that you’re somewhere out there but I can’t talk to you. I haven’t been able to talk to anyone else before like I have with you.”  
“I’m sorry Greg. Truly. I want to be there for you all the time, every day… but I can’t. My line of work… it’s difficult to have any social interaction at all.”  
“Sounds like a lonely life.”  
“It is.”

A heavy silence settled upon them. Greg could feel the hurt radiating off Mycroft, and he wanted to take it away. He just didn’t know how. He put on a smile, but his eyes still were pained. “Hey,” he said softly. “You could always kidnap me for a bit. It wouldn’t be technically a ‘social interaction’ as far as your bosses are concerned.”

Mycroft broke into a warm, fond smile. “You wouldn’t appreciate that.”  
“Oh, I dunno, if it’s you it could be very enjoyable.”  
“You won’t know it’s me at first.”  
“True,” Greg conceded. “I’d probably get in a right mood before I worked it out. Might punch the poor bastard that met me before I recognised a friendly face.”  
“I have no doubt whatsoever,” Mycroft said with the same warmth, “that you would try to. However your kidnapper will most certainly be trained in physical combat.”

Greg chuckled and then winced. Mycroft sat closer in response, but Greg just shook his head. “I’m fine. You’re right. Best not start fights I can’t win.”

Greg could tell Mycroft was getting increasingly uncomfortable with the conversation, and so decided to change topics. “I put out the pinecone and the stick this year.”  
“Hm, we shall not be able to collect another item with you in the hospital.”  
“No. Sad. But, you know, it could be anything. Doesn’t have to be strictly Christmassy.”  
“I can bring one for you?”

He was torn between wanting to be with Mycroft when he chose the decoration, and being heartened by the fact Mycroft was willing to go out and continue their silly tradition.  
“You don’t have to. I mean, I rather liked us being together when we got it. It kinda represented that, you know? The ‘not being alone this year’ part.”

Mycroft nodded slowly. “Of course. Well…” he looked about the room, “how about this?” He picked up the white plastic water cup on the bedside table.  
“Um, sure? I mean, it’s certainly… unique.”  
“Oh shush you,” Mycroft chided playfully, and it made Greg’s stomach flip. It was like they’d been close friends for years. In a way, they were… even if their time together totalled three days in three years.

Mycroft stood and walked over to the other patient’s bed in the room, mumbled something to them, and then returned with a pair of scissors. Greg looked at him quizzically, but Mycroft just shot him a ‘trust me’ look.

Greg watched curiously as Mycroft sliced down the sides of the cup six times, and then proceeded to make a snowflake out of the plastic. Once he was done, he lifted it up and handed it over to Greg.

“It’s amazing,” Greg said, his throat closing up slightly. “You’re so creative.”  
“An aspect of myself that I rarely get to indulge,” Mycroft answered. He returned the scissors to the old woman.

“Where shall we put it?”  
“Hmm,” Mycroft hummed, thinking. He then quirked his lips, stood, and pulled at a laminated information sheet on the wall above Greg’s head. He plucked a small amount of tack from the sheet, and then attached it to the snowflake. Mycroft then stuck the ornament directly over Greg’s head.  
“How’s that?”  
“Perfect.”

The door opened, and in walked a burly nurse. She took one look at Mycroft and frowned. Greg sighed internally, realising his enjoyable Christmas was about to be cut short.  
“What are you doing here?” she demanded. “Visiting hours ended ages ago! Out with you!”  
“I…” Mycroft looked about read to snap back with something important, but stopped himself. He hung his head and nodded. He then turned to Greg. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”  
“I’ll be here. And thanks, you know, for coming.”  
“Always.”

~

Greg beamed when Mycroft came back in the morning. It was like a light shining into the room. He had to admit, at that moment, he was starting to fall for this mysterious man. Mycroft looked at him with such fondness, such devotion… he couldn’t deny that he was important to Mycroft for some reason. Yet there was something more in that look. It was almost as if those grey-blue eyes weren’t quite seeing _him_.

He knew it was silly to think, but he couldn’t pin it down and it nagged at him. Mycroft looked at him like he was a reminder of significant memories, or like looking at a photo of someone from before you knew them. As if all of the history between them hadn’t happened yet, and longing for it.

Then again, it could be that Mycroft’s super-secret job let him compile a huge file on Greg and became privy to information even he didn’t know about. Given the spontaneous appearances thus far, it wasn’t impossible.

They played some word games, Greg quickly realising that Mycroft was _countries_ out of his league when it came to intellect. He swore to himself to never play trivial pursuit against him – that was until he realised that Mycroft knew close to nothing about pop culture.

“You can calculate how fast water soaks into sand, but–”  
“Fluid flow through porous mediums,” Mycroft corrected. “Darcy’s Law.”  
“Yeah that, but you can’t tell me who played the fourth doctor?”  
“I don’t see how knowing those things are relevant,” Mycroft huffed, but then frowned.  
“What?”  
“I cannot believe I said that; I sound like my brother. He deletes anything that he thinks is irrelevant.”  
“Your brother a robot, then?” Greg laughed.  
“No, he just is able to delete things in his brain much like you would on a computer.”

“And you?” Greg ventured. Mycroft quirked his eyebrow at him. “Can you do that?”  
“Yes, however I have a better filtering and filing system than he does, and so rarely need to.”  
“You’re a bit weird, you know that?”

Mycroft looked hurt, as if Greg’s words were insulting.  
“Hey, no, that wasn’t… I like it,” Greg said seriously. “Honestly. Different is good.”  
“Most people do not concur with you.”  
“Most people are tossers,” Greg laughed, and managed to get a smile out of Mycroft. He loved it when Mycroft smiled. He always looked so shy, so vulnerable… it was like he rarely smiled or showed anyone that emotional sensitive side.

“So,” Greg said, changing the subject. “What are your hobbies?”  
“Hobbies?”  
“Yeah, like… in my off time, I enjoy listening to music. I can play the guitar. Not very well, mind, but I can do it. I know I spend far too much time out drinking, but I enjoy socialising with mates. Most of those I know from football, so getting a pint is kinda the done thing, you know?”  
“No.”  
“Oh.”

Greg bit his lip, trying to think of what to say. Mycroft obviously looked uncomfortable, as if Greg had just pointed out how socially inept the man was. Mycroft was quiet and reserved, and so likely spent his youth in libraries studying.

“Do you play an instrument?”  
“Piano,” Mycroft answered shortly. Greg let the silence hang, waiting for him to continue. After a moment, Mycroft looked away and mumbled, “it is not something I practice much. Sherlock was always the more musical of us both. I, as you say, ‘can do it’, however it is not the cathartic activity that my brother experiences music as.”  
“What do you do that is ‘cathartic’?”

Mycroft cleared his throat uncomfortably. Greg reached over and took the man’s hand, which caused him to look at him in surprise. Greg simply smiled. “You can tell me. I’m not going to go blabbing your secret to anyone.”  
“I paint.”  
“Really? That’s incredible.”  
“It is?”  
“Yeah,” Greg said softly. “Shows you’re really creative, and have quite a lot of heart under that mask you wear.”  
“Mask?”  
“Oh don’t give me that. I’ve seen that face of indifference you’ve given people. And the way that you think if you piss them off by being arrogant and assuming they’re beneath you, they’ll leave you be.”

Mycroft looked about to argue, but then closed his mouth. “Astute,” he admitted. “They often are, however.”  
“Not humble though, are you?” Greg laughed. “Yeah, I know,” he added as Mycroft was about to explain himself. “You actually are incredibly smart and obviously do something top secret that could make anyone you want disappear.”

Greg winked at Mycroft. He blushed, which Greg found utterly adorable. There were times like these that the age gap didn’t feel so big. Deep down, Mycroft was still had that vulnerability of a child – he could tell. More in the way a child had to take on too much responsibility far too young and so that emotional side never could mature; it was forced into suppression, and left there.

“Perhaps another game?”  
“Sure. Nothing that you have a clear advantage in, though. What have you got?”  
“Um.” Mycroft bent down too look at the pile of games he’d been given. “Scrabble, which we’ve played,”  
“And not again.”  
“As you’ve said. Monopoly…”  
“No way. Nuh-uh. I refuse.”  
“Why are you so passionately against that game?”  
“When you’ve been hit in the face with a metal car for winning _or_ losing, you learn not to play.”  
“Right.” Mycroft awkwardly decided to skip asking for the explanation. “Cluedo…”  
“Oh, brilliant. I’m shooting for detective, so let’s play that one.”

Mycroft hesitated, and so Greg raised an eye challenging to him. The man bowed his head with a smile and pulled it up onto the bed.  
“I wanna be Colonel Mustard. You can be Professor Plum, since that seems to suit you.”  
“I see,” Mycroft hummed as he opened the board.  
“You could always be Miss Scarlet, if you wanted,” Greg teased.

Mycroft shot him an unimpressed look, with the hint of amusement. “I could be anything I wanted, Gregory,” he purred.  
It sent tingles down Greg’s spine, and he found himself with a suddenly dry mouth. He swallowed. “I’m sure you could.” He flicked his tongue out to wet his lips and looked over Mycroft’s person. “You’ve certainly got the legs for that red dress, anyhow,” he commented mock-suggestively.

Mycroft looked at him, and the air grew tense. There was a heat behind those eyes, or at least Greg thought he saw it. “Imagining dastardly things, Sergeant?”  
Greg’s heart leapt into his throat. “Uhh, um,” he elicited. He was sure that his red face gave away the truth, and so there was no point in lying.  
Mycroft chuckled. “Well, perhaps should you win, you could request that of me for your prize?”

_Did he just actually say that?_ Greg blinked in shock. It felt surreal, but it was certainly enjoyable. He saw the signs that Mycroft was about to quickly reconsider his behaviour and get very embarrassed, and so Greg continued the banter before it could happen. “And if you win, what would you ask of me?”

Mycroft’s eyes drooped minutely, a slight squint, and he moved an inch closer. “Anything I wanted,” he uttered.  
“Yeah… yeah that sounds good,” Greg mumbled in response, his body reacting intensely. _I guess I have an authority kink,_ he realised. _That dangerous air of control – or power – it’s intoxicating._


	5. December 24, 1995 - Mycroft

Mycroft had to shut his eyes and shake his head. He wasn’t used to the sudden appearance in a different location. The first time it happened, he’d been laying on a couch trying to sleep and so hadn’t noticed when he appeared on Gregory’s couch.

The second time, however, it had floored him. He was just walking through a doorway, and suddenly he was in a hospital. The world hadn’t spun, there was no bright flash or descending darkness to signify the change of scenery – he was just _there_. It took a moment for his senses to re-adjust.

It was a mistake to stop dead in his tracks and close his eyes, apparently, as he was suddenly bowled over. A man was mumbling apologies to him, and scurrying to help him back to his feet. _I was on a street,_ he realised from the brief flash before clenching his eyes shut.

“Really, sorry, I didn’t see you, was just… wait, Mycroft?”  
“Gregory,” Mycroft answered, brushing himself off.

Greg grabbed him in a hug, which Mycroft wasn’t expecting. Before he could reciprocate, the man dropped his arms and stood back.  
“What are you doing here?”  
“I… what do you mean?”  
“That’s four times, Mycroft. Four times now that you’ve appeared out of nowhere on Christmas eve. I can’t find you all year, and then you just happen across me on the same day each year. Why?”

“I don’t know,” Mycroft answered honestly. He really did have no idea why he was being forced to live out every day as Christmas. It was a personal hell for him, one direct from his nightmares. He had to admit that thus far, it hadn’t been so bad, given that he’d spent each one with Gregory. Mycroft suddenly felt something… pain, regret, or perhaps longing… at the thought that he could have been enjoying Christmas all these years if he’d only had Gregory to share them with.

“Myc?”  
“Hm?”  
“You spaced out a bit there. Hey, let’s get out of the crowd.”

Greg grabbed him by the arm, a bit more forcefully than Mycroft expected, and dragged him over to an alley. He released him, and then gave him a stern look that Mycroft hadn’t been prepared for. He swallowed uncomfortably.

“What’s the deal with you?”  
“I’m sorry?”  
“Why do you keep showing up like this?”  
“I really don’t know.”

Greg snorted and huffed a curse. “Like hell you don’t. Are you stalking me?”  
“No,” Mycroft responded bluntly, but he had to consider that perhaps he was, in a way. Not by choice, at the very least.  
“Fucking seems like it. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and digging this past year about you, Mycroft – if that is your real name. I’ve bloody spent more time than I’m proud of looking over my shoulder in case you were there, watching me.”  
“I assure you, Greg, I’m not stalking you,” Mycroft pleaded, leaving the ‘intentionally’ as subtext.  
“Then how can you keep ‘meeting’ me like this?”  
“I… am not sure I can explain,” he said slowly.  
“Try,” Greg snarled, and he was suddenly very aware of the wall behind him.

“I… it… you seem to have healed well,” he said, changing the topic. He was deeply unsettled to be on the butt end of Greg’s anger, particularly without that underlying trust and friendship that had been there the other times it’d happened in the (well, _his_ ) past.  
“Yeah well knife wounds don’t take a year to heal. Don’t deflect, Mycroft. You haven’t even told me your last name for fuck’s sake! Each year so far I’ve forg-”  
“Holmes,” he answered instinctively. Greg peered at him, and then nodded, supposedly deciding that he was telling the truth.

“I am not here to hurt you, Greg,” Mycroft ventured into the silence between them.  
Greg hung his head and then looked back up at Mycroft, his expression steeled but pained. “Oh, no… so far, you’ve been doing the opposite, haven’t you?”  
“I-”  
“Appearing out of nowhere when I’m at my lowest, when I’m struggling, and somehow making me feel better.”  
Mycroft nodded, and then pinched his face in an expression he didn’t employ often – honest, hesitant confusion. “Why are you angry, then?”  
“Because,” Greg snapped, but seemed to fall short. He took a breath and let the anger subside, which Mycroft appreciated. “It’s hard.”

“I know, Greg. You did just say that you were struggling, and that I helped… so I don’t understand your anger.”  
“I’m not angry you show up!”  
“Really? Because it seems–”  
“I’m angry you disappear!”

Mycroft was stunned, and didn’t know what to say to that. Greg breathed heavily, as if it had taken physical effort to say.

“You come in, and make it better. You make it easier. And I think… yeah, I think I can do this. It isn’t so bad. Hell, I even enjoy myself. Every fucking year I put out those decorations because it reminds me of you, and the good times we could have when everything else is shit. And then… and then it’s gone.”

Greg’s voice hitched, and he took a moment. Mycroft remained standing up against the wall, waiting for him to continue.  
“It’s all gone. You leave and I can’t find you, and it’s like… everything else comes back. And… and I have to wait and hope I’ll see you again.”

“Greg… I honestly wish I could see you more often. I’d see you every day if I could. If my presence helps you, I’d dedicate myself to making you happy.”  
“See, now you go and say that and I feel like the most important fucking bloke in the world, but you’re going to do it again, aren’t you? Drop into my life when I’m feeling shit, make it better, then bugger off to your life and leave me behind again.”

Mycroft bit his lip. He hadn’t really considered that Greg would enjoy his company so much, or be so hurt by his absence. It pained his stomach knowing that he was causing this wonderful man anguish, but was completely powerless to change it.

“Do you want me to go?”  
“No,” Greg groaned. He shook his head before looking back at Mycroft. “I don’t want to miss out on your company just because I get sad when it’s over.”  
“I had not considered my company to be so valuable,” Mycroft admitted.  
“Yeah, well… to me, it is.”

Mycroft didn’t make a move. He just stayed where he was, letting Greg get out what he needed.  
“Come on. Let’s go back to mine and get out of this cold, dark alley. I’ll tell you, nothing good ever happens in them.”  
“I’d have to agree with you.”

They walked through the streets and crossed through a park towards a tube station.  
“Wait,” Greg said, stopping, Mycroft almost bumping into him. “This year’s decoration. We should get it now.”  
“You… still want to?”  
Greg looked up at him shyly. “Of course.”

He knew he was blushing when he smiled in response. “Well, I picked last year. Your turn.”  
“Alright,” Greg chuckled, looking about.  
“We could always buy a decoration,” Mycroft suggested, walking in tandem with Greg as his eyes scoured the ground.  
“Nah, it means more this way.”

Greg stopped and bent down, picking up a rock. He held it out to Mycroft. “What about this?”  
Mycroft took it. It was slightly oddly shaped; it was smooth at the bottom and rough at the top, in the general shape of a water drop, and made of quartz. _River pebble,_ his mind supplied. “Seems acceptable,” he commented.  
“The rough top’ll let me tie it up.”  
Mycroft handed the pebble back. “Good thinking.”

~

In Greg’s flat, it was much the same as the last time Mycroft was there. Greg busied himself with some string to tie the rock up with the pinecone, stick, and plastic snowflake that hung over the window.

Greg stopped once he turned around, looking at Mycroft in the lamplight. “Jesus,” he uttered, and stepped closer into Mycroft’s personal space.  
“Hm?” he hummed, perplexed.  
“You look the same as you did all those years ago,” Greg spoke. He reached his hand up as if to touch Mycroft’s cheek, but stopped himself. “The same suit, the same weight, the same hair… everyone ages, Myc, and some better than others, but this is…”

Mycroft braved staying close to Greg despite the pounding of his heart. He continued to look into the glassy brown eyes as they took stock of him.  
“How?” Greg breathed.  
“Does it matter?”

Mycroft desperately wanted to bridge the gap and kiss him. Gregory had gained a few more silver hairs than last time, and so was slowly becoming the man he knew. It was hard to resist, especially given how closely Gregory was standing and staring into his eyes.

“Yes,” Greg answered. “You’ve said you don’t think I’ll believe you, but I need to know. When I look at you… I can’t see a man who’d disappear on me for a whole year. You don’t look like you _want_ to stay away. But it’s like you don’t exist beyond today, every year.”  
“I spent Christmas day with you as well each time,” Mycroft pointed out.  
“Fine, this day and tomorrow then,” Greg huffed good-naturedly. “But you hadn’t left your whole name and each time I seem too caught up in your company to remember that I don’t know. You don’t tell me where you work, where you go, where you live, or even a contact number.”

Mycroft looked into his chest. “I’m sorry.”  
“So tell me.”  
He looked up at Greg’s pleading expression. The warm lamplight illuminated his features, making the atmosphere intimate. “Let’s sit.”

On the couch, Mycroft sighed. He didn’t know where to begin, and he didn’t know what he was going to say to explain. He instinctively felt like he couldn’t talk about knowing Greg in the future… Tempest had warned against telling Greg that, and even though he didn’t believe Tempest had his best interests at heart, he still didn’t understand the situation enough to be taking risks.

“You’re right,” he began, “when you say I disappear. I do. Literally.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“Exactly that. I only am here for the time I see you.” Mycroft knew he was being obtuse, but he couldn’t help it. He was still confused over how this was all happening to him, let alone the purpose of it all, and was plagued with emotions that got in the way of eloquence.

Greg looked hurt, and scared. “So you… you’re not really here?”  
“No… I mean, yes, I am really here. I think. W-what I mean is, I’m not a hallucination of yours.” _I’ve wondered if all this is a hallucination of mine, though, but that isn’t going to help you right now._  
“Ok. Got scared for a minute there.”  
“Sorry. No, I am actually here with you. I just… every evening, at about this time, I stop being wherever I was, and appear somewhere else. Each time it’s near you.”

Greg took a minute to process the information. He nodded a few times, but each time Mycroft thought he was about to answer, he said nothing.

“Why?” Greg eventually asked.  
“I can’t say,” he said honestly. He had no idea what Tempest’s plan was, if there even was one. It was entirely possible the woman had thrown him into this situation and gone off to… smoke or something, completely forgetting all about him. Or simply not caring.  
“So… you only appear on Earth for one day? Like, Christmas Eve evening to the same time Christmas Day?”

Mycroft looked at his knees. “Huh. Yes, I believe that’s correct.”  
“So it’s the same time each year? A bit after nine?”  
“I honestly haven’t looked,” he said. His phone had died two days ago and the power charger for it was still twenty years away from being invented. He hadn’t noticed a clock, either, at around the times he appeared or disappeared.  
“Well that’s when I’ve noticed you, so we’ll go with that.”  
“Ok.”

Greg was taking it rather well, Mycroft decided. He hoped that it wasn’t just a case of accepting all the information and then kicking Mycroft out.

“Why did you appear the first time?”  
“You were going to jump,” Mycroft said, the words bitter in his mouth. “I had to stop you.”  
“That’s right… you said you were there to do the same. Was that just a lie?”  
“No. It’s what started all of this, actually. A different bridge, a different time… but I was in your position.”

He knew Greg didn’t entirely understand, but felt that was ok. He couldn’t explain much more, anyway, without talking about being from the future and being sent back in time by a spirit because he was hopelessly in love with him for almost a decade. That would be coming on a bit strong.

Greg took Mycroft’s hand. It was warm and reassuring with his firm grip. “You came to help. I appreciate that.”  
“I’m glad.”  
“And you’ve been looking out for me since.”  
“When I can, yes,” Mycroft responded, meaning more than Greg was.

He’d never tell Greg about the times he’d organised for obstacles to be removed from the Detective’s path, or the times he’d orchestrate things to make life a bit easier for him. Making sure Greg got enough time off to sleep properly – without raising suspicion – was something Mycroft felt duty-bound to do, but guessed was something the Detective Inspector wouldn’t have appreciated, detesting any form of favouritism over his peers.

Greg smiled. “I think I understand. I’m…” He looked pensive, trying to figure out how to phrase the next part. “Grateful.”  
“I-I’m glad.”  
“I didn’t think things like this really happened. I mean, you see it in films and stuff, but it’s not real life, you know. But it’s ok.”  
“It is?”  
“Yes. You’re here, making sure I’m alright and not alone. That’s all that matters. And I’m glad, you know? I don’t feel so alone anymore. I haven’t since that night on the bridge, even if I still have been, really. Maybe because I know you’re out there somewhere. Just… differently than I thought.”

“Good. Is there anything else you want to ask me? Because I’d like to answer it, and then maybe move on from all of this and enjoy the evening.”  
“Um… oh, can other people see you?”  
“Yes,” Mycroft answered. “I was told off by the nurse, remember?”  
“Oh. Yes, right. Sorry, you have to remember that that was a long time ago for me.”

Mycroft nodded. “Sorry. Experiencing time like this makes things a bit confusing.”  
“Yeah, it must be. Man, you’d see so much. Things changing so quickly… I can’t imagine how fleeting the universe must seem seeing it like that.”

Mycroft felt deflated for some reason, and he didn’t want to pick apart the emotion too much to work it out. “Have you eaten?” he asked, straightening.  
“Uh, yeah. Sorry. You obviously eat, since we’ve shared food a lot over the years. When did you last eat? Are you hungry?”

There was a lot about that sentence that had Mycroft thinking twice. _Gregory might not understand things exactly as they are if it’s ‘obvious’ I eat, it seems really strange to hear the past four days be referred to as ‘over the years’, and which timeline is he asking about when he wants to know when I last ate?_ Mycroft elected to just answer the simple question.  
“A bit peckish, yes.”  
“Well, I have some Christmas pudding, I think. Just one of those ones in the tub from the supermarket, mind. I wanted to have something a bit festive.”

Mycroft paused while he thought of a way to politely decline. “You save that for yourself, Gregory. Do you have some fruit?”  
“Don’t like pudding?”  
“Christmas pudding and I have… history.”  
Greg laughed as he stood and walked to the kitchen. “Fair enough. Brandy?”  
“Please.”

~

“Hehe, he didn’t.”  
“I assure you, Gregory, he did.”  
“Your brother did _not_ make a chem’stry lab at sssix,” Greg slurred, giggling.  
“He did,” Mycroft insisted, tipsy himself. “He wanted to manufacture poisons from Mummy’s garden.”

Greg hiccoughed and snorted. “Bet she liked that. All her flowersh dug up.”  
“Hmm,” Mycroft hummed in agreement. He took another sip of the brandy. “She liked it less the second time.”  
Greg laughed and leant against Mycroft’s shoulder. “Sher…Sherlock did it again?”  
“Yes, when he was twelve. However Mummy was more upset that he was successful than the fact her garden was in ruin.”  
“Get out!”  
“I’m serious. He managed to manufacture a lethal dose.”

Mycroft swirled the last of his drink around the glass. Greg grabbed his arm tightly. The mood in the room dulled into a sombre atmosphere.  
“You must miss him,” Greg said softly.  
“Yes,” Mycroft answered. He honestly did. He loved his brother dearly, and it was hard to be met with such resentment. Mycroft was glad it had been less since the events at Sherrinford, but it hadn’t improved enough by his liking.

He closed his eyes and envisioned those early childhood years. Sherlock happily deducing what the gifts were before ripping the packaging off with glee, hugging Mycroft as a thanks, enjoying his company through the day as they played games and sung carols and ate treats. It was a simpler, better time, in many ways.

“Hey,” Greg said, shaking his arm a bit to bring him back to the present. “I’m sssorry you can’t see him. When you said you were goin’ta spend time wissh your brother for Chrisstmas… I didn’t realise.”

Mycroft observed the sympathy in Greg’s eyes. He deduced that Gregory assumed his brother dead. He didn’t feel much like correcting the unspoken words, as for all intents and purposes, it was true. Mycroft wouldn’t see the Sherlock he knew again. It was strange that he suddenly felt upset from that thought. He hadn’t on the bridge, but there, with Gregory resting up against him, he felt sad that it would be over.

_I won’t see the Greg I know again, either_. That thought stabbed at his gut, too. He shook his head, the alcohol making him more sensitive. _Or, really, less controlling of the emotions_ , he told himself.

“At least I get to still see you,” he whispered, not realising that Greg hadn’t heard the rest of the thoughts in his head. Greg smiled at him though, and so mustn’t have been bothered by it. Likely he was too intoxicated to notice.

Greg leant more heavily against him, drooping on the couch.  
“I think it’s time for bed,” Mycroft said, lifting the limp body back upright. Greg giggled and looked at him with a strange expression.  
“Is that a proposhishon?”  
“Not while you’re this drunk, Gregory,” Mycroft huffed, amused.  
“Good. Cause… no, no that’s not good.”  
“Why ever not?”  
“Cause… cause I want to hug you.”  
“Is that so?” Mycroft’s heart had started to beat faster in his chest. “Just hug?” he ventured, the brandy making him brave.

Greg blushed, smiling sheepishly. “And a kiss, maybe. If… if that’s alright.”  
“It would be more than alright,” Mycroft said, hating that he had to finish the sentence. “Had you not had so much to drink. Let’s get you into bed.”

With some effort, Mycroft managed to get Greg into his bed. The clock on the bedside table read a quarter to three. Greg hummed happily as he was tucked in. Mycroft couldn’t resist running his fingers through the greying hair and pressing a kiss on the man’s forehead.

“Goodnight, Gregory.”  
“Goodnight, Mycroft. A-and thanks, you know, for watching over me.”


	6. December 24, 1996 - Greg

This year, he was prepared. He had the table set, the turkey in the oven, the vegetables done, and the gravy ready. He’d decorated more, this year having a small tree and a few ornaments adorning its branches. Still, as every year thus far that Mycroft had been seeing him, the hanging hand-picked decorations took pride of place.

He wasn’t sure exactly how it was going to work. Was Mycroft going to appear out of thin air? Would there be a ghostly flash? Would he slowly become more and more solid? He’d never actually seen the spirit appear before.

Greg had told himself many times that he wasn’t going insane, and that he really did have a guardian angel. Just knowing that had been quite a comfort throughout the year. When times got tough, he knew that Mycroft was out there somewhere, watching over him, and waiting until Christmas Even when they could be together again.

He hated how much like a soppy teenager he sounded when he thought of terms like ‘together again’, but he couldn’t deny it. He’d started to develop deep feelings for Mycroft, even before finding out that he was some kind of spirit. Strangely, almost frustratingly, he couldn’t tell his heart that it wasn’t proper to fall for one’s Christmas Guardian Angel.

Mycroft was one of the few people (yes, he’d insisted on calling Mycroft a person still, even if for lack of a better term) that Greg felt truly comfortable around. He was smart, funny in his dry and witty humour, and deeply caring. Not to mention good looking and an intriguing mystery.

Greg checked his watch. Nine pm. He tapped nervously on the table, the wine glass sitting near him empty. He was wanting to open the bottle, if not just to have something to do, but resisted.

He thought back to how last Christmas had ended. They’d slept in (or rather, _he_ had slept in) and then had a quiet morning while recovering from the drinking the night before. It had been a good evening, Greg recalled. They hadn’t brought up Greg’s statement of wanting to kiss Mycroft. His guardian angel had acted like it hadn’t happened, or that Greg had forgotten about it. Without the brandy, he didn’t have the courage to say anything.

They watched some Christmas movies, Mycroft allowing him to watch the children’s ones that were on. Greg couldn’t explain why, but he loved some of the kids’ films about Christmas. It just felt more magical. Mycroft had at least enjoyed them – at least, hadn’t vehemently proclaimed hating them. They watched ‘ _The Santa Clause’_ which Greg had seen before, and ‘ _The Nightmare Before Christmas_ ’.

Greg had found his disk of ‘ _It’s a wonderful life_ ’ two months ago in a clean-out, and had left it on the mantle. He flickered his eyes at it nervously. He couldn’t help but feel like his life was similar to it. Part of him wanted to ask Mycroft about it, but he was hesitant.

Footsteps behind him signalled Mycroft’s arrival. He swung around, looking at the slightly flustered face. He beamed and stood, grasping the man in a hug. He looked at his watch in the hug.

“Nine thirteen,” he announced. “So now we know.”  
“How are you, Gregory?”  
“I’m, yeah. Alright, actually. Applied for the homicide squad, since they have an opening next year. I’ll find out in January.”  
“That’s wonderful, however I meant how are you managing?”  
“Still a bit lonely, and things with family are tense as usual, but on the whole, alright. It’s good to see you, Mycroft.”  
“And you. However, from my perspective, I saw you not five minutes ago.”

Greg laughed and guided Mycroft to the table. “Yes, that’s right. You walked into the bathroom and didn’t come out.”  
“I still require washing my hands, if you don’t mind?”  
“Oh, yeah, sure.” Greg waved towards the bathroom. “So long as you come back this time. I was a bit worried and then sad.”

Mycroft inclined his head and left. Greg sat at the table and opened the wine.  
“Didn’t even get to say goodbye!” he called out.  
“Goodbye,” Mycroft responded from the bathroom.  
“Bit late, mate,” Greg chuckled loudly.

Mycroft returned and sat at the table. “Apologies for the delay, then, however it was unavoidable.”  
“You’re forgiven. Now, tell me… how much have I changed?”  
“I-er, what? Oh, um, you’re more silver now.”  
“Damnit, I knew it.”  
“I assure you, it’s a good thing. You’re getting very distinguished.”  
“Better have some reckless fun now before I look too mature for it,” Greg said slyly, eyeing Mycroft over the rim of his wine glass.

Mycroft blushed red and coughed. Greg quirked his lips into a grin.  
“Yes, well… I’m sure you’ll be responsible, when you do.”  
“Yeah,” Greg groaned, leaning back in his chair. “After going off the hinges as a teenager, I have mellowed a lot.”  
“Another good thing.”

Greg served their meal, and they ate with the quiet sounds of carols in the background as they chatted. Mycroft helped Greg clean up, which he was thankful for, and then they returned to the couch.  
“I seem to be spending a lot of time here,” Mycroft commented, sitting.  
“Oh, right. Sorry. We can go for a walk now, if you like?”  
“Actually, I would rather like to.”

Greg grabbed his coat. “It’s a bit chilly… do you have a coat?”  
Mycroft opened his palms out. “I have only what I am wearing.”  
“Right. Um, here, you borrow this one. It’s a bit longer, which would make it fit better for you. I’ll get another.”

Before Mycroft could protest, Greg thrust the coat at him and walked into the bedroom. He opened the doors and decided to wear his leather jacket. It wasn’t as insulated as the other coat he had there, but it was waterproof. It was likely to drizzle, and he didn’t want to end up wet.

“We can get another ornament while we’re out. I have actually been scouting out a few places nearby we could get one.”  
“It’s strangely important to you, to collect these items,” Mycroft commented.  
“It’s not strange at all,” Greg answered, passing Mycroft a spare scarf and beanie. “They signify you, and the way you’ve brightened up my otherwise dark Christmases.”

Mycroft sunk his face into his chest as he smiled. Greg found it adorable. He stuck out his arm. “Come on.”  
Mycroft took it slowly, as if waiting to see if he felt too anxious from it.  
“Don’t worry. It’s not the eighties anymore. And if we get into trouble, well… I’ve got my badge.”  
“Hardly a deterrent to the hateful idiot,” Mycroft mumbled.  
“Well I’m not gonna bring a weapon.”  
“Yes, I suppose that would be an unfortunate amount of paperwork to give yourself for the holiday,” Mycroft answered, and Greg laughed.

~

Greg took some measured breaths. It was time for bed, but he didn’t want to leave Mycroft to sleep on the couch. He was surprised that a spirit needed to sleep, but wasn’t complaining. He didn’t know how to broach the subject.

He could phrase it as a friendly gesture, saying how he didn’t mind and since Mycroft was a spirit anyway it wouldn’t count for anything. He didn’t understand the logic behind it but it was all he could come up with to try explain away his desire to cuddle the man in bed.

The more terrifying option was to admit he _wanted_ Mycroft to join him in bed. Not only was it nerve-wracking to consider the emotional implications, but also he was unsure that he’d be able to keep his desires to himself. He didn’t want to alarm Mycroft if his body got excited to be close to someone he deeply cared for. He wasn’t entirely sure if spirits had sex, or their opinions of such. Was there a rule against sleeping with your charge, as a Guardian Angel?

Greg bit his lip. Mycroft was looking tired, but uncomfortable.  
“Hey. I-I know you’ve been sleeping on couches for a while, now, so… uh, would you… maybe… want to share the bed?”  
Mycroft snapped his attention up to Greg. He tried to read the expression, but Mycroft’s face had slid into the impassive mask too quickly.  
“I certainly would appreciate a bed to sleep on,” Mycroft said hesitantly. “But only if you are comfortable sharing.”  
“Fine, yes,” Greg said, rather too quickly. He cleared his throat. “Really.”  
Mycroft squinted at him. “Are you sure? You seem nervous.”  
“I, er, it’s just… I don’t want to frighten you off or anything. I… uh, would, would you, uh, be alright if we cuddled?”

Mycroft didn’t move, and so Greg quickly babbled to try save the situation. “Just saying that it might happen, during the night, and I’m a cuddler, and I wouldn’t mind actually a hug given how lonely I get usually and since you’re only here as my–”  
“Greg,” Mycroft interrupted. “It’s fine. I’d like that.”  
“You… would?”  
“Yes.”  
“Good, um, great.” Greg smiled as he stood there, suddenly not knowing what to do with his hands.

Mycroft stood, took a step closer, and embraced him in a hug. Greg sighed as the relief washed over him, and he wrapped his arms around his Christmas Spirit.  
“Thank you,” he breathed.  
“I’m always here to make sure you’re not lonely,” Mycroft uttered. “I-I care, Greg. About you.”  
“Yeah. I know. It’s not just your job, eh?”  
“Certainly not.” Mycroft released him. “Even when my job has resulted in my interfering in your life, it was always done with care.”  
“You’ve… interfered before? When?”  
“It’s complicated,” Mycroft said, his voice pained. Greg simply nodded and let it go. He trusted Myc.

“I have a shirt you can borrow. And, er, clean pants, if you want.”  
Mycroft blushed profusely, and Greg couldn’t help but giggle. He patted Mycroft’s arm. “You can put yours in the wash tomorrow and dry them.”  
“I… thank you, Gregory.”  
“Come on. Bedroom’s through here.”


	7. December 24, 1997 - Mycroft

Mycroft’s hand clasped thin air where the new ornament used to be. He closed his eyes and shook his head, opening them again to see that the layout of the flat was different. The gold-painted acorn he’d been reaching for had moved, but was still hanging at the window along with the other decorations.

He turned around, expecting to find Gregory there, but the house was empty. The couch was now up against the wall, instead of diving the room. There was a small table with fairy lights on it, turned on, and the lamp in the corner was different.

“Greg?” he called out, but the flat remained quiet.  
“Mikey Mikey Mycroft!”

Mycroft sighed and hung his head as he heard Tempest’s voice.  
“It’s just Mycroft,” he growled. He looked up to see her slung over the couch. “What now?”  
“Oh I thought I’d just drop by, check in and all that. See how things are going,” Tempest said, jumping up. “All better now?”  
“No,” Mycroft replied, incredulous. “How on earth is this supposed to ‘make me better’? You’ve trapped me in a nightmare!”

“Pfft,” she scoffed. “Always so dramatic. I thought you looooved Greg?”

Mycroft turned up his nose at her sing-song voice. “I do, but shoving me into his past to experience every Christmas with him, and only that, is ludicrous,” he snapped. He scowled at her. “I don’t know what you hope to accomplish from all this.”

She shrugged. “Not really intending to accomplish anything, really.”  
“Oh, you’re just avoiding working, is that it?”  
“Bout it, yeah,” she huffed. “Got a few people sorted while you’ve been fuffing about here.”  
“And what exactly did you want me to do, if not ‘fuff’ about?”  
“Fucked if I care. But you haven’t been cleared from my list, so whatever you’re doing isn’t working.”  
“To hell with your bloody list!” Mycroft panted, anger still pumping through his veins.

“Shh! You’ll wake him.”  
“Good. It’ll end this tedious conversation.”  
“Fine, I’ll leave you to it, then. I’m sure you’ll do fine stuck in this all on your own.”  
“I have been thus far, haven’t I?” Mycroft sneered.

Tempest crossed her arms, the leather squeaking. “I’ve still been around, making sure things don’t get too screwed up. I’m not completely careless, eh?”  
“Don’t bother.” Mycroft pushed past her and moved to the kitchen.  
“Not doing it for your benefit,” she said, amused. “If I cause any more incidents, Stella and I won’t get the all clear for the holiday.”  
“Oh how purely selfish of you. I should have known,” Mycroft sung. “I assume that means you do have a heart, if you can find yourself to care for your wife?”  
“Says the iceman without a family,” Tempest snapped.

Mycroft glared at her, but then drooped. His scowl turned into one of pain. “I never was, not really. Just hiding behind an ice mask. I cared deeply for my family, even if none of them particularly cared for me.” His voice was soft and sombre.

There was silence as Mycroft stood there, staring at the bench.  
“I’m sorry,” Tempest said, her voice the most sincere he’d ever heard it. “That was uncalled for.”  
“You were right, though. I don’t have a family anymore.”  
“There’s still your brother?”  
“Him going from being actively contemptuous towards me to mildly indifferent isn’t exactly a warm, loving, and supportive environment in the wake of… everything.” Mycroft couldn’t bring himself to say it. He clenched his jaw, images swirling in his head and making him nauseous.

Mycroft then had an epiphany. “It’s 1997,” he stated, perking up and looking at Tempest.  
“Yes,” she answered slowly.  
“I can change it.”  
“What are you talking about?”  
“Sherrinford! Moriarty! I can stop it all from happening!”

Tempest’s eyes blew wide. “Whoa, hold on. You can’t interact with things in the past!”  
“I have been so far,” he countered.  
Tempest shook her head and waved her hands in protest. “No, no. Me borrowing board games for you and you buying some cake are minor changes that don’t affect the space-time continuum. I’ve made sure of it. You can’t change your entire life.”  
“Watch me,” Mycroft said, moving towards the door.

Tempest suddenly was in front of him, holding him in place. “Listen to me. I know it’s tempting, but you can’t. You’ll create so many inconsistencies and paradoxes that you’ll twist everything in a knot.”

Mycroft tried to move past her, but she didn’t budge. “But,” he pleaded, “the Mycroft out there… the one from this time… he won’t ever need to be on the bridge after Sherrinford like I was. I’ll still be stuck in this time period, sure, but I can end it myself and let the other Mycroft life a happier life.”  
“You can’t know that it’ll be happier,” Tempest protested, pushing him back into the kitchen. “And you can’t make decisions like that. My job is to help _you_ , and screwing up the timeline is definitely one of the things that’ll get me on probation again.”

“But you’re not helping me!” Mycroft shouted. “You’re just bumbling around leaving me to make my own decisions! And so, I have. I’m going to stop all of it. Save Sherlock from having to fake his death, save Gregory and Dr Watson’s grief, stop all those people Eurus killed from dying… isn’t that worth it? My life? Especially since there’ll be another me out there anyway?”

“I’m not saying it’s not a better idea, I’m saying you can’t do it. I have made sure it’s physically impossible for you to affect those kinds of changes.” Tempest fixed him with a steely glare. It was impressive how intimidating she could be, when barely half Mycroft’s height.

Mycroft’s heart pounded in his chest. The hope that he’d be able to undo all of his mistakes had quickly bloomed and then been crushed. His skin felt tight, he couldn’t breathe properly as his mind whirled with memories of Sherrinford, and his stomach clenched with guilt.

Mycroft had enough time to get to the bin before retching. He felt pale and cold, his head still swimming.  
“Oh, gross. You humans and your… fluids. Ok, ok, I know this one… fluids from the eyes means you’re sad, or happy, so fluid from the mouth means you’re… hungry? No, hungry or… angry?”  
Mycroft stood, the nausea having passed, and spared her an unimpressed glance before rinsing his mouth.  
“Sorry, I don’t really pay that much attention to your bodily habits. It’s all…” She wiggled her fingers in front of her. “Gross.”  
“You said, yes,” Mycroft hissed.

“Mycroft? That you?”  
He turned his head to Greg, who was blearily stepping towards him from the bedroom.  
“Yes, Gregory. Apologies.”  
“No, no, don’t be sorry. Are you alright?”

Mycroft inhaled deeply. “Yes. Just… bad memories.”  
“Oh,” Greg uttered, sympathetic. He placed a hand on Mycroft’s back and another on his arm. “Do you want to talk about it?”  
Mycroft shook his head. “No, it won’t help. You won’t understand. I’m glad you’re up.”  
“Sorry I was sleeping. I’ve been working homicide this year, and while it’s great, it’s been exhausting. Here, you sit down and I’ll get you some water.”  
“Thank you.”

He walked and sat at the table, and was joined by Tempest – much to his dismay.  
“I’m sorry you can’t avoid all of your problems… or at least, those big disasters. I get it, really. But you’re going to have to just live with it, alright?”  
“Mycroft?” Greg’s voice shook through his head, and he turned to the man in the kitchen. “I said did you want a biscuit too?”  
“Oh, yes, thank you.”  
Tempest spoke again, and he discreetly looked at her. “Don’t just commit yourself to existing only to keep him happy. He’ll be happier if you want to live with him.”

Greg placed the packet of biscuits and a glass of water in front of him. Tempest had disappeared, thankfully, and so he could focus entirely on Greg.  
“I’ve got a nice evening planned. I thought I’d catch an hour’s sleep before you got here so that I’m not too tired.”  
Mycroft smiled. “Sounds wonderful.”  
“I thought we could make a decoration this year out of stuff? I collected some things, and I thought since you’re creative, it might be nice?”  
“Yeah… yeah, that’d be nice.”  
“You sure you’re alright? You seem a bit out of it.”

Mycroft took a drink of water. “I’m fine, now that you’re here. So, tell me what you have to make our creation with?”  
Greg smiled at him, reached out, and took his hand. Mycroft’s breath caught and he was sure he was blushing.  
“I have a collection of wood disks. Don’t worry… I didn’t buy them! I collected them in the forest when I went out there earlier. Well, they were stubbly little sticks then, and I sawed them into disks.”  
Mycroft was trying hard not to look at their joined hands in case it would make Greg stop. “I’m sure we can do something with that,” he said shyly. “Do you have glue?”

~

“Are there such things as Ghosts of Christmases Past, Present, and Future?” Greg asked him.

They were watching ‘ _Scrooged_ ’. Mycroft hadn’t particularly fancied the film when he’d first seen it, but recent events had made him more interested.  
“Um, I-I can’t be sure,” Mycroft answered. It was still a shock to him that he could say that honestly. “As far as I know, Christmas Spirits are actually ‘Winter Light Spirits’ and have just been associated with Christmas in recent times since the holiday was formed.”

Greg sipped his wine and nodded. “Did you believe in spirits when you… you know, were like the rest of us?”  
“No. I had believed it superstitious. I never particularly enjoyed the festive season. Christmases were strenuous to say the least.”

Greg laughed. “And now you spend every moment in Christmas. Someone has a cruel sense of humour.”  
“Yes, she does,” Mycroft mumbled.  
“Hm?”  
“Oh, nothing.”  
“Well, do you enjoy them now?”

Mycroft felt his cheeks heat. He was glad that the lighting was dim so Greg wouldn’t notice as easily. “Since spending them with you, they have been much more enjoyable,” he said quietly. “Extremely so,” he added in a whisper.  
“I’m glad,” Greg answered, also whispering, moving closer. “I’d hate to think you weren’t enjoying my company.”

Mycroft wanted to say that he found Greg’s company enticing, that he felt privileged that someone as magnificent as Greg would want to spend their time with him, that he spent most of his life desperately hoping to spend more time together… instead, he managed to make a squeak.

Greg smiled at him and put his glass on the table. He then turned to face him, ignoring the ending of the movie. “Is it wrong that I find myself wanting to spend more than just a day with you?”  
“No,” Mycroft answered breathlessly. “I am fortunate in that I get to spend every one of mine with you.”  
Greg remained smiling as he looked down. “I guess there’s some kind of law against it.”  
“Against?” Mycroft desperately hoped he wasn’t misreading the signals, but since he was out of his depth and had little experience in such matters, he had to be sure.  
“Me. A-and you.”  
“Oh.” Mycroft swallowed. “Well, you’re the police officer, I’m sure that’s more your department.”

Greg laughed. “True.”  
“If memory serves, homosexuality was decriminalised in 1967, which would make it a full forty years since there was.” Mycroft leaned in closer and uttered, “but I get the feeling that wouldn’t have stopped you, anyway.”  
“You’re right,” Greg breathed, inches away from Mycroft. “It wouldn’t have.”

Just as Mycroft leaned in for what he hoped would be a kiss, an alarm went off. After two beeps, it stopped, and Mycroft opened his eyes to an empty room.


	8. December 24, 1998 - Greg

How he hated that Mycroft was a Christmas Spirit. Or… was that Winter Light Spirit? Mycroft had said that, but Greg couldn’t get it out of his head that the man was a Christmas Spirit. 

The mood had been right, he’d been sure, and Mycroft definitely seemed like he was going to reciprocate. But just as he was going to take chance, he’d been left abandoned.

_No, that’s not fair._ He knew it wasn’t Mycroft’s choice to leave. He didn’t understand _why_ exactly that it happened when it did, but he wasn’t about to get angry at him for something he couldn’t control. It just hurt to open his eyes and be staring at thin air, alone, in an empty room.

Mycroft would be there soon. Eighteen minutes. Greg felt anxious. He’d considered sitting in the same place as before and just continuing where they left off, but a whole year of thinking and doubts had clouded his mind. Was this really the best idea?

He’d been on two dates in the year. Both nice girls, but they just… weren’t Mycroft. He’d had a rather loud argument with himself about the sanity of dating a spirit in a different time stream. He settled on just following his heart until it got broken bad enough to get some sense into him. He couldn’t just not give it a shot when it was what he wanted, and apparently nothing else would satisfy.

He wasn’t paying attention while thinking, and ended up spilling cranberry sauce down his front.  
“Oh, shit,” he grumbled to himself. He tried to wipe it off, but ended up having to change shirts.

When he came back, Mycroft was sitting looking stricken on the couch.  
“Myc, hey,” he announced, finishing buttoning the new shirt.  
“Gregory,” the man answered, clearly unsettled.  
“Bad timing, eh.”  
“Indeed. I doubt I will get used to it.”  
“Well to be fair, I don’t think I would either, so it’s ok.”

Mycroft stood, and looked about. “How… how are you?”  
“I’m alright, yeah. Been a tough year at times, but overall things have been going well. Mum wanted me to come over for Christmas this year. Asked me, even. I didn’t have to call her this time.”  
“Oh. Of course.”  
“I told her no, silly.”

Mycroft blushed and looked away shyly. “Did she protest?”  
“Eh, she was more nosy than protesting. Wanted to know if I was spending Christmas with a girlfriend or boyfriend.”  
“Ah, yes, that’s right. Your mother has always been accepting in that regard.”  
“How do you know? Right, ‘all-knowing-spirit’ and all that. You probably know everything there is to know about me, so I don’t know why you bother asking how my year’s been. I told her I didn’t know yet, in case you were wondering.”

“Gregory,” Mycroft said, sounding like he was about to say something difficult. Greg’s heart hammered in his chest and he willed his stomach not to constrict from panic.  
“Here, sit. I-I made some treats. I’m sure you’ll enjoy them. Brandy Balls, I call them. They’re, er, they’re like rum balls, but, er, made with cherry brandy and bits of brandy snaps, and uh, almonds.”

Greg was aware he was babbling nervously, but he couldn’t help himself. He sat at the table and took one of the aforementioned balls resting on a plate in the middle of the table.  
“Gregory,” Mycroft started again. “I-I’m not a spirit.”  
“I’m sorry if I’ve gotten the terminology wrong.”  
“No, that’s not it. I’m not anything like that.”

Greg scrunched his face in confusion. “I don’t understand.”  
“I’m trapped in this… ‘every day is Christmas’ thing by a spirit.”  
“What?” Greg didn’t actually need to hear anything again, he was just dumbstruck. “You’re not my Guardian Angel?”

Mycroft laughed. “No, no, I’m afraid not.”  
Greg couldn’t help but tremble and look down at the table. He felt the panic get stronger, mixed also with hurt and disappointment. _So no one has been looking out for me all this time? It’s all been a lie?  
_ “Greg?”

He could hear the concern in Mycroft’s voice, but he couldn’t look up. “Why are you here, then?”  
“Greg I feel like you’ve thought something more of me than I intended. Thinking back I can understand how you could have misunderst–”  
“But you come every year! You disappear like a spirit!” Greg looked at Mycroft, pleadingly. Desperately hoping that what he thought was true.  
“Yes, but–”  
“You’ve come when I’ve needed you, at Christmas, and made it all better. How… how can you not be?”

Mycroft looked torn. He pursed his lips and took a deep breath. “I will explain.”  
Greg waited. He clenched his jaw. His heart still pounded. It’d been _years_. Years of thinking he wasn’t alone.  
“Just tell me. Was it all a lie?”  
“Was what?”  
“This. You. The time we’ve spent. Your… feelings.”  
“No!” Mycroft jumped. “No no, Greg, that’s not a lie. I really am here, and I really do care for you deeply. I’ve loved spending time with you. Making you happy… it’s filled me with a sense of purpose I thought I’d lost.”

_That does help, at least_. “Alright. So, what’s going on? Because it still seems to me that you really are my Christmas Spirit.”  
Mycroft took Greg’s hand, and Greg held onto it tightly. He was glad that at least his feelings had been honestly reciprocated.

“I’m not a spirit. I’m just a man. The night I came to you on the bridge… I wasn’t lying. For me, I’d been on a bridge that night too. A spirit came to me to stop me from jumping. I mentioned you, when she was talking to me. Tempest – that’s her name, and she’s terrible, really – told me that you were on her list of people to see too… and so she, being as lackadaisical as she is, took me to see you instead.”

Greg nodded, understanding thus far. “Right. So this Tempest, she wanted you to talk me down so she didn’t have to. Got it. But, wait, how did you know me?”  
Mycroft opened his mouth, hesitated, and groaned. He winced, and then looked at Greg directly. “I’m from the future, Greg.”  
“What?”  
“Tempest didn’t seem to think that time was an important factor and so sent me twenty three years into the past.”

Greg squinted, unable to accept that what he’d heard was true. “So let me get this straight. You were on a bridge ready to kill yourself, and a spirit came and took you into the past so you could stop me from doing the same, because you know me in the future. But, I wouldn’t have been alive in your future had you not come to stop me.”

Mycroft paused, looking at the roof as he thought. “Yes.”  
“Right,” Greg said, his voice sceptical. “Which bridge?”  
“What?”  
“Which bridge?”  
“Does it matter? The one over the Thames closest to my house.”  
“When?”  
“Same time as you.”  
“Why?”  
“Gregory, please,” Mycroft pleaded, pained. “Don’t.”

He nodded, understanding. “Sorry. I know I shouldn’t bring it up or demand details but it’s just what I’m trained to do.”  
“I know.”

He had to lean back. It was incredulous, but at least was appreciating why Mycroft had had difficulty explaining it to him before. “So you know, er, knew me in the future?”  
“Yes.”  
“How?”  
“I… I don’t know if I should tell you. I don’t know how it’ll affect things.”

“Mycroft,” Greg said, unimpressed.  
“I’m sorry. Indolent Tempest hasn’t exactly briefed me with what I’m doing here, what’s going on, how to act, what the rules are–”  
“Seriously? She just dumped you in the past and left you?”  
“Not exactly. She’s appeared a few times to trade barbs with me and basically say I can’t seriously impact the space-time continuum.”

Greg ran his other hand through his hair. “So you know me from the future – twenty three years in the future, that is–”  
“Seventeen, now,” Mycroft interrupted.  
“Right. Far, basically. Are we… friends? Colleagues?” Greg hesitated before adding, “Lovers?”  
“Friends. Occasional colleagues. I’ve always harboured a great deal of respect for you, Gregory. And, er, since a minute ago we almost… that is, for me, and I thought we–”  
“I was going to kiss you, yes,” Greg stated, helping the man who was clearly struggling.  
“Yes,” Mycroft breathed. “And so I can admit I’ve had feelings for you for some time.”  
“But you never did anything about them?”

Mycroft sunk into himself. “No.”  
“Why?”  
“I’m not… deserving of you.”  
“Well I think that’s for me to decide,” Greg huffed good-naturedly. “If you’re like this, or, well, were like this… god, I have no idea what tenses to use. Basically if I know you as you, how I know you now, then I should have certainly liked you back.”

Mycroft didn’t say anything. He just looked away. Greg noticed little tells in the way his face moved that something more was going on. “Something happened, didn’t it?”  
“Yes. There were always complications, and I wanted to keep you safe. And, of course, I was a coward. I pretended not to care for relationships.”

When Mycroft didn’t continue talking, Greg rubbed the man’s hand gently. “So, you came back to save me, is that it? Why have you been coming back every year since?”  
“Because Tempest is a fiend, and has created this incessant festive aberration without so much as an explanation let alone a way out.”

It was like someone had taken a knife to his chest. “Oh,” he exclaimed, hurt. _Mycroft didn’t want to keep coming to see me each year. He wasn’t trying to come and spend time with me.  
_ “Greg, no, I mean… I thrive with information, and control, but here I have neither and it is unsettling. The only benefit of this situation is that I get to see you and be there for you. Please, never doubt that.”

Greg looked into those grey-blue eyes, and saw only sincerity. He nodded. “Ok.”  
“Ok,” Mycroft mirrored. “So, where do we go from here?”  
“Well,” Greg mused, humming. “You’re not my Guardian Angel.” Mycroft shook his head at him. “You’re just a regular bloke.”  
“Well, I’m not sure about _regular_ …”  
“So, I’d say, from here… we go to the park. We get our ornament like we do every year, we come back, we drink too much, and then cuddle on the sofa. After that? Well, we’ll see.”

Mycroft brightened, his face hopeful. “Thank you.” He then turned and looked out of the window. “But… it’s drizzling.”

“So we’ll get wet.” Greg took Mycroft’s hand again. “Regular man or not, you’ve still been there for me all these years. You’re still kind, quirky, and interesting. We’ll still have Christmas lunch together like I planned, and watch movies together like always.”  
“Gregory, I fear I shall end up obese at this rate.”

Greg laughed. “Well next year I’ll fix you something other than turkey and chocolate pudding.”  
“Well, let’s not be hasty…”


	9. December 24, 1999 - Mycroft

“Myc, this Y2K thing… it’s not, you know, actually a big deal, is it?”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows as he looked at Greg. He put his glass down on the table, having been sitting with him with some nibbles and a drink.

“On the contrary, it is rather serious.”  
“Oh, and here I thought it was just doomsayers, making a fuss… how worried should I be?”  
“Relax, Gregory. I said it was serious, not that you had to worry.”

Greg looked at him, confused. Mycroft smiled. “It’s serious because it literally affects everything and everyone, from the big banks’ records and international flight plans to children’s immunisation. The first of January, 2000, will be twenty-four hours of high alert. However you needn’t worry because thousands of people have been working tirelessly to ensure that there isn’t a problem. It’s something people have known about for some time, and instead of just making a fuss, we have been working on the solution.”

Greg nodded and looked relieved. “It’s handy having someone from the future in my life sometimes.”  
“It’s difficult for me to tell what I can and can’t share with you.”  
“Or you could just say screw it all and say anything?”  
“You know I can’t do that, Gregory,” Mycroft chided playfully. “I don’t want to do anything that could endanger you meeting me.”  
“Yes that would be a travesty.”

Greg’s eyes glinted over his glass. Mycroft couldn’t tell if the man was being sarcastic or not. The man seemed to be able to tell, and so reassured him that he honestly wanted to be sure that they did meet one day.

“I’m getting a little tired of being in one place for so long,” Mycroft mused after a while. “Your place is nice enough, don’t misunderstand me, and I wouldn’t want to be anywhere but with you… however, I somehow feel trapped in this flat.”  
“Yeah, I guess I can understand that. I mean, it’s been, what, a week now for you? Fuck, can’t imagine all these years just being a week or so for you. You’ve become like part of my life, Mycroft. I…”

“Yes?” he pressed when Greg didn’t continue.  
“I just… I’ve known you a lot longer than you’ve known me. I feel like you’re the only stable thing in my life sometimes, the man that’s always there waiting for me. That much time… it makes me feel closer to you, like… like wanting more is… fine.”  
“I see. You believe that because time is progressing differently for me that I would not return your affections.”  
“I’m saying that you might think it presumptuous of me to care so deeply for you, when you haven’t had the time I have to think about it.”

Mycroft nodded. “Understandable. However I had known you ten years before that night on the bridge with Tempest. That makes it eight years knowing of me, and ten for me knowing you throughout the year. I believe we are evenly matched.”

Greg didn’t say anything further, just nodded into his wine glass. Mycroft had the feeling he had more to say on the matter, but didn’t have the courage. He could understand that, and so let Greg have the space.

They hung their decorations; this year, Greg decided to wait until Mycroft was there to hang them over the window. Mycroft insisted on hanging them in order, which made Greg laugh sweetly. The new one, a dried maple leaf, was added last; up next to the previous year’s bundled cinnamon.

“The leaf is fragile. It won’t last long without proper care,” Mycroft said as they stood back to admire the collection.  
“How should I care for it?”  
“You could keep it in the pages of a book, but laminating it might keep it together best.”  
“I rather like it being natural,” Greg pouted.  
Mycroft chuckled. “It’s up to you. But knowing you, you’ll be upset if we get to next year and the leaf is a crumbled mess in the bottom of that shoebox.”

As midnight approached, Mycroft found the atmosphere getting heated. Not in the sense of impending arguments like when around his family, but the unspoken desire between him and Gregory. He couldn’t believe that the man he’d wanted so desperately for so long wanted him in return, and yet even he was able to read the signs.

They sat on the couch, close together, speaking softly. They talked of nothing in particular, until Gregory braved to bring up the situation.  
“New year soon. New millennia, even. Time for new beginnings, I think.”

Mycroft swallowed and nodded. The first time around, he’d not considered the date particularly important beyond ensuring all of their computer systems remained functional. Most of that was being sure that Sherrinford remained secure. This time, however, he was able to taste the potential in the air for something spectacular to start.

“You won’t be here when it’s really the new year,” Greg continued, his eyes causally flickering to Mycroft’s lips occasionally. “So why don’t we pretend it’s now?”  
“N-now? As in midnight, tonight?”  
“Yes. That alright?”  
“Yes,” Mycroft answered, not entirely sure why Greg would need confirmation on that.  
“You know what happens at midnight on New Year’s Eve, right?”

Mycroft’s eyes widened as he realised. He swallowed. His throat and mouth were dry, but he was unable to break the moment and drink some water. “Is, er, is that something that you would want?”  
Greg smiled warmly at him. “I’ve wanted that, and more, for a while now Mycroft.”  
“I-I have, as well.”

Greg reached out and took Mycroft’s hand. “New millennia. Time to try something new, don’t you think?”  
“Yes,” he breathed, close enough to inhale the scent that was Gregory. He instinctively moistened his lips, and Greg did the same. _It’s intoxicating when he does that, flick his tongue out…_  
“It’ll be hard, but here, now, I… I want to try.”  
“I couldn’t ask you to–”  
“Shh, let me decide. I’ll never be satisfied with myself until I gave it a shot. I don’t want to always be wondering.”

_Even the chance to have this, him… I’ll take it. I know he’ll not be able to stay loving a man he only sees once a year… but I can’t deny him. But it’ll only be five years until we meet in person and then we_ could _be together…_

“Midnight,” Greg breathed, breaking Mycroft from his thoughts.

Soft lips pressed against his, and Mycroft felt the tingling all through his body. His heart lurched and stomach jumped as Greg kissed him softly, slowly, tentatively… Mycroft hummed in enjoyment. _Finally, finally I know what it’s really like_.

Greg’s strong hand came up and cupped his cheek, the thumb stroking his skin softly. Mycroft closed his eyes and let his soul be filled with all of the sensations of Greg there, tenderly kissing him. _It’s been worth it. This whole insane situation… worth it, just for this._

~

Christmas day was filled with hugging, cuddles, and kisses. They stayed in late, hungrily exploring each other’s bodies. Greg had told him that since they didn’t have much time, they had to make the most of it… and Mycroft certainly did just that. It was heavenly.

He’d almost forgotten that he wasn’t staying. The day with Greg was so calm and warming that he was completely absorbed in the moment. He’d been given a selection of chocolates and marzipans for Christmas from Greg, and they shared them throughout the day. Greg had taken the liberty of getting himself something for Mycroft to give him – a new pair of gloves, black leather, and lined enough to keep his hands warm when out at crime scenes. Apparently Mycroft had mentioned it last Christmas, wishing to give Greg some nice gloves. It was a perfect gift – he only wished he’d been able to actually buy it for him.

When evening came, Mycroft found himself dreading the nine-thirteen cut off time. Greg kept in good spirits, but Mycroft could see that he was hurting.

“I’ll see you in a year, yeah?”  
“If only it could be sooner. I’d never leave your side, if it were up to me, Gregory.”  
“I know, dear. I know.” Greg sniffled and cupped both of Mycroft’s cheeks. “I’ll take care of myself, as best I can, yeah? I’d tell you to take care, but you’ll instantly be there in the new year. So I’ll say this. I love you, my Christmas Spirit.”

Mycroft kissed him. “I’m not a Christmas Spirit,” he uttered.  
“You are to me,” Greg answered. “My special Guardian Angel.”  
“I’m not an angel, either,” Mycroft whispered.  
Greg kissed him back. “Close enough.”


	10. December 24, 2000 - Greg

It had been quite a year for Greg. He’d been set up on three dates by his colleagues – all of them women. He hadn’t mustered the courage to tell anyone that he actually preferred men. It didn’t help that he still saw a lot of distaste towards homosexuals in both the cases he worked and amongst his co-workers.

None of them had gone anywhere, obviously. He spent the whole time just comparing them to Mycroft. It’s not that he didn’t enjoy their company (well, two of them), they just weren’t what he wanted. He didn’t feel the spark he did, or the connection, the did with his absent Christmas Spirit.

His mother had asked him to spend the day with the family, but he’d declined. She accepted it, but didn’t buy his excuse of preferring the boxing day arrangement. He decided that next year, he’ll just say that he’s working.

This year he’d bought Indian food for dinner. Mycroft was getting sick of Christmas food. Last year he’d forgotten, and while Myc didn’t complain, Greg could tell. He’d be a bit sick of roast if he had to eat it every day for a week and a half.

He looked at himself in the mirror. He was almost all grey now. Sometimes he felt bad about it, but he always heard Mycroft’s words calling him ‘distinguished’, and the look of admiration on his face when he’d said it, and then he didn’t feel so bad anymore.

Greg was about to go and wait for Mycroft, however he received a phone call. He insisted that he was unavailable for the evening, and tomorrow as well, at work. He didn’t care if it endangered his relationship with his boss. He’d done extra shifts to be sure he had tonight and tomorrow off, and so didn’t budge when his boss growled at him.

When he came back into the living room, there was Mycroft, sitting on the couch, looking deflated and a bit lost. They’d been kissing when he disappeared last year.

“Hey, gorgeous, I’m here,” Greg said softly from the doorway.  
“Gregory.”

He strolled over and joined Mycroft, and then kissed him.

~

“I want you,” Greg breathed into Mycroft’s neck. He kissed the soft flesh there and felt Mycroft shiver.  
“You have me,” Mycroft answered, just as breathily. “All of me.”  
“I want to spend as much time as possible with you… naked.”  
“We’ve gotten the decorations hung, added the new one, and exchanged presents. I don’t see a reason to leave the bed at all.”  
“Perfect.” Greg kissed him passionately. “I want to show you what fun we can have with your Christmas present.”

~

Greg nuzzled Mycroft’s chest, utterly content. Throughout the year, he’d often wonder if it was worth spending all year alone so that he’d be Mycroft’s, wholly and completely, for just one day. As he breathed in the man’s gentle scent, listening to his quiet breathing, he knew it was. His heart didn’t give him a choice in the matter.

“I love your long legs,” he murmured as he pressed a kiss on Mycroft’s ginger-dusted chest. “They just keep going on and on… it’s practically illegal.”  
Mycroft hummed and chuckled. “Gonna arrest me, officer?”

The words sent a jolt of excitement through his body. He swallowed and snaked up to kiss his lips. “Are you going to resist arrest, or do I have to handcuff you?” he murmured into Mycroft’s ear.  
“I most certainly will, officer.”  
“I know what I’m getting you next year,” Greg said as he stood. It pained his body to peel away from the intoxicating warmth, but where he was headed kept the arousal pumping through his body.  
“And what would that be?”  
“You’ll have to wait and see. Won’t be long, for you, at least.”

Greg rifled through his closet and pulled out the handcuffs. “These are the real deal, Myc, so not exactly made for comfort. You’ll tell me if they start hurting you, right?”  
“That’d just add to the experience, though, wouldn’t it?”  
“No, I’m not going to enjoy it if you’re in pain.” Greg’s voice was firm, and Mycroft’s expression fluttered to surprise and then admiration.

He sauntered back to the bed, the morning light from behind Mycroft illuminating his slender form and causing Greg’s arousal to become harder. “I love you. I can’t bear to think of you in discomfort let alone pain.”  
“I love you too, Gregory.”

~

“I think the pinecone is still my favourite,” Mycroft said as they lay on the couch under a blanket.

Greg had Mycroft in his arms, holding him gently yet protectively. He was exhausted in the best way possible, and content to just laze about with the wonderful man in his arms for the remainder of the evening. He adamantly refused to think about being left alone again soon.

“Mine too. It was the first, after all. That one that brought me back. It symbolises a new beginning, of something worth living, something _happy_ , to me.”  
“I’m glad. It does to me, as well.”  
Greg leant up and pressed a kiss to the man’s cheek. It was adorable how he blushed each time. “We could get more pinecones?”  
“No,” Mycroft answered quickly. “I want to keep it special. It’ll lose its meaning.”  
“True.” He nuzzled Myc’s ear. “There is only one of you, after all.”  
“And of you.”

Greg stared in thought at the collection. The new one, a Christmas tree made of little lightly coloured sticks, hung next to the wood-disk wreath from a few years ago. His Mycroft was very creative, and it made his heart swell.

“Do you know what you’d like to do next year?”  
“I have enjoyed today very much. More of the same, perhaps?”  
“Well, I’d planned on that, definitely,” Greg answered with a laugh. “But I don’t want to wear you out.”  
“Unfortunately you may succeed,” Mycroft mumbled, blushing again and tucking his chin into his chest.  
“How about we go out for dinner?” Greg asked, hopeful.

Mycroft twisted in his grasp to lay upon him, chest to chest. “You would wish that?”  
“Yeah,” Greg said, a little breathless at the proximity. “Definitely.”  
“I would enjoy it very much.”  
“Good. I’ll surprise you with where. I’ll have a year to decide, after all.”  
“Why not lunch?”

Greg tilted his head, and then smiled. “Because I plan to have the same lazy morning with you without pressures of getting out of bed to do anything.”  
“What we did hardly counts as being lazy,” Mycroft chuckled.  
“We can go for lunch if you prefer, but I’d thought that you’d rather me take you to dinner _then_ ravish you, instead of you showing up at a restaurant looking utterly fucked.”  
“Good call,” Mycroft said, and then pressed a kiss on Greg’s lips.  
“You do look so adorably dishevelled and relaxed. Don’t want anyone to get jealous.”  
“You have an entire year to spend time with anyone who does.”

Greg sat up, his heart tugging painfully. “Myc… first of all, I meant people getting jealous of me getting to be the one to make you look like that – not the other way around. Second, this between us; it’s not just a one-day deal. I love you, completely, and that’s all year. I hate that we don’t get much time to spend together, and I wish I could have every day. But I’m not going to be out there screwing around in the meantime.”

Mycroft strangely looked hurt. Greg screwed his face in confusion. What had he said?  
“Gregory, I don’t want to cause you to spend your life in waiting. I… I love you too, honestly, and that’s why I don’t expect you to be alone all year just for this one day of bliss.”

“Hey,” Greg said, cupping both of the man’s cheeks. “You, Mycroft Holmes, are worth waiting for. I admit I’ve been set up at work on three dates, but nothing went past a mildly pleasant dinner. They just weren’t you.”  
Mycroft’s eyes started to water. “But that’s sad, Greg. You are the most wonderful man I’ve ever known and don’t deserve to be alone.”  
“I’m not alone, Myc. I have you. It’s more than I thought I would have, and if it hadn’t have been for you, I’d have died alone too. Honestly, I am glad that I have you.”

Mycroft lay his head down on Greg’s chest. “It won’t be long until we meet for what was the first time, so it won’t be like this forever.”  
Greg ran his hands up and down Mycroft’s back. “I don’t understand how that will work.”  
“I don’t either. But it must. Tempest said I couldn’t do anything that screwed up the timeline, so–”  
“Tempest?”  
“Yeah, the spirit that trapped me in Christmas.”  
“Oh, yeah. It’s a shame I can’t see her. I’d like to thank her.”  
“I’m sure she could hear you. Be glad, though, that you can’t see her. Conversations are trying to say the least.”

Greg drew in a deep breath. “Almost time.”  
“I don’t want to leave this moment.”  
“I don’t want you to either. But at least you’ll see me straight away.”  
“Greg… don’t keep yourself isolated and alone on my account, please.”  
“I’m not. You’re in my thoughts, and I have mates.”  
“I don’t want to become a source of pain for you.” Mycroft gripped Greg’s body tightly.  
“You won’t.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft breathed, almost inaudibly, as he held onto him. Greg embraced him in return, and pressed a kiss on his head.


	11. December 24, 2001 - Mycroft

The soft warmth below Mycroft suddenly turned hard, sharp, and cold. He groaned, feeling like he’d been pressed into gravel.

“Mycroft, what are you doing down there?”

Mycroft opened his eyes and realised he was on the ground. He craned his neck to look up at the voice, Gregory’s voice, standing over him.

“I was lying down on you,” he responded, slowing moving.  
“Ah. Right. Sorry, that’d be shit for you. More so than for me to have you disappear. Let me help you up.”

Greg took Mycroft’s hand and pulled him upright. The world span for a moment, and then suddenly he was being pressed against the wall of the alleyway. Greg’s lips were on his, passionately kissing him, and his body pinned Mycroft’s against the bricks.

He made a noise of surprise, unable to have gotten his footing before Greg jumped him.

“Fuck I’ve missed you,” Greg murmured.  
“Greg,” Mycroft tried, but Greg grabbed him in a forceful kiss and cut him off. He pulled away to try again. “Greg… why are we in an alley?”  
“Restaurant,” Greg answered, returning to kiss Mycroft.

Hands were in his hair and down his sides. It was rather… arousing. He could feel Greg’s excitement pressing into him, as well.  
“Dunno why I thought I could wait,” Greg whispered into Mycroft’s ear.  
“You’re gonna have to.”  
“Or we have dirty sex in the alley.”  
“As much as I care about you,” Mycroft said, his voice strained. It really was hard to object when the man of your dreams kept putting his tongue in your mouth. “I would rather wait.”  
“I’ve waited a year,” Greg pouted. He nipped at Mycroft’s earlobe and snuck a hand between them to grope him.

Mycroft shuddered at the sensation. “I am uncomfortable with the level of dirt here,” he said, looking about. It really was filthy. Being on the ground in his clothes was bad enough.

Greg took a step backwards. “Right. Sorry. I just… you’re like a drug I’ve gone without for a year. I need you. I guess I didn’t think about that. I don’t want you uncomfortable.”  
“Thank you, Gregory.” Mycroft nodded and tugged at his waistcoat. “I do not object to your enthusiasm, though.”  
“I’ll settle for eye-fucking you over dinner, then.”

~

The food was enjoyable, and Gregory did indeed spend most of the time staring at him lewdly. He admitted to taking more pleasure in eating his meal than he normally would have, making a show of sucking the spoon or licking errant bits of cream from his fingers, all the while staring directly into those brown eyes.

Greg was gripping his hand tightly as they walked back to Greg’s flat.  
“What would you like as a decoration this year?”  
“Hm, I haven’t had time to think, honestly.”  
“Yeah, that’s true. I have. I like the natural theme we have but I’m running out of ideas for purely natural things.”  
“There’s the cup cut into a snowflake I gave you a week ag-, oh, wait, seven years ago. My. I-I hadn’t quite considered how much time has gone by for you, on the slow path.”  
“The slow path,” Greg repeated. “That’s definitely it.”

They walked some more in silence. Greg had been doing well in his job, but Mycroft knew he was throwing himself into his work because he was lonely. It was an incredibly long time to wait, just for one day. Mycroft felt guilty for making the man wait, even if he’d said that he understood if Greg wanted to find someone through the year.

Greg was almost all silver now, albeit a dark variety; Mycroft could remember him four years from now as having dark silver hair which lightened over time. There were more lines on his face, but there was still a ways to go yet before he was the older man Mycroft had summoned all those years ago.

“How about this?” Mycroft said, breaking the silence. They’d walked past a pine with rough bark. He plucked a chunk of the bark off, and held it out to Greg.  
“Yeah, that will fit nicely.”  
“Greg, I–”  
“No,” Greg said, stopping him. “Don’t. It’s ok. Let’s not waste our time with regrets.”

Greg leaned forward and kissed him. Mycroft’s heart lurched in his chest. He still felt guilty, but couldn’t ignore the wisdom in Greg’s words. He silently nodded.

~

They made shortbread together. Greg had done seafood for Christmas lunch, and decided they could spend the morning (that they were out of bed) baking. It turned out that Greg was quite a proficient cook and baker, when he had the spirit for it.

Mycroft hadn’t ever done anything so domestic in his life, and he loved it. He didn’t care that the flour got everywhere; they laughed about it together, and Greg made sure to leave a large floury handprint on his arse.

Greg fed him some of the shortbread dough before baking. He’d managed to make a mess of himself as well, and Mycroft helped clean him up tenderly. They exchanged kisses sweetened by the ingredients and the sherry that was supposedly for cooking, but Mycroft had yet to see a recipe that involved it. There was also brandy out, but they were to make some rum balls after the shortbreads with it.

Mycroft found he didn’t think about the calories in the cooking they did at all. His entire focus was enjoying the moment with Greg; watching him happily feed him tasty treats, sucking batter off the man’s fingers, nibbling on their creations together… it was blissful. As were the interludes where they stripped each other off and (usually) returned to the bedroom.

Mycroft almost dropped the tray of tree-shaped gingerbread he was pulling from the oven when he turned around and Tempest was sitting on the bench.

“These are good. Compliments to your man,” she said with a mouthful of shortbread.  
“You can eat?” Mycroft asked, putting the tray down and taking off the oven mitts.  
“Not really the same as you, but yeah. So where is Greg?”  
“He’s using the lavatory,” Mycroft answered. “What are you doing here?”  
“Just checking in. Making sure you’re not screwing anything up.”

Mycroft snorted and crossed his arms. He then tilted his head. “You’re wearing a skirt.”  
“Oh how observant,” she responded sarcastically.  
“It’s winter. You’re a Winter Light Spirit. Why are you wearing a skirt?”  
“Hot places still get winter too, idiot.” Tempest then swirled on the bench, crossing her legs and resting her elbows on her knees.

Mycroft cringed and looked away. “I’d prefer it if you wore pants.”  
“I’d prefer it if I didn’t have to work with humans.”  
“Fine,” Mycroft huffed. Tempest leant backwards, smirking at him.

Mycroft looked at the floor, gathering the courage to speak. He only managed a quiet mumble. “Can you make it so I’m here every day?”  
“What? Speak up; super hearing isn’t a power of mine.”  
“I said, can you make it so I’m here every day? With Greg?”

She looked at him, her face pondering. “Yes,” she said. Mycroft’s heart leapt. “But not now,” she continued, and Mycroft felt a stab in his gut and anger rising in his chest.  
“Why not?”  
“I don’t have to explain myself to you.”  
“I love him! He loves me! It’s killing him to only see me once a year.”  
“And how would you explain your presence to the rest of the world? A 0.274% aberration from the normal is easily compensated by temporal flux. 100% is out of the question. You can’t have more than a 0.4% variance before instability, so you’d only be able to spend–”  
“Thirty-five hours, yes,” Mycroft groaned. He then changed his expression from annoyed to pleading. “Thirty-five is still better than twenty-four.” 

“Yeah but do you know how much more _work_ that is? Be happy you have a whole day.”  
Mycroft knew that he really had no means to make Tempest do as asked, and she clearly wasn’t willing to help. He nodded. “You’re quite good at mathematics,” he commented.  
“So are you. You’d be able to pass the basic exams even.”  
“Basic?”  
“Yeah.” Tempest smirked again. “What, you thought you were the smartest being in creation?”

Mycroft blushed and cleared his throat. “No.”  
“Ah. Your sister.”  
“Don’t talk about her,” Mycroft snarled. He could feel the blood leak from his face and his stomach churn.  
“Sorry.”

He looked back up at her, surprised. She hadn’t be genuine in any apology before. He nodded to her.  
“Look, Mycroft, just… enjoy what time you have, because it’s fleeting.” 

He was about to respond when he heard the toilet flush. He turned his head to the bedroom. “You’d better go. He’ll be out in a second.”  
“Yeah, I’m not hanging around to watch you two snog each other senseless. Ew. I mean, how is that even enjoyable, with all that hair?”  
“Hm?” Mycroft tilted his head, and then reached up and touched his chin. There was a significant beard growing away there. He’d entirely forgotten. Gregory didn’t have a mirror in his bathroom at the sink, and so he hadn’t seen his reflection in some time.

“Mycroft? Something the matter?”  
He dropped his hand, and turned to face Greg. He shook his head. “No, just realising I’m growing a beard.”  
“It’s fucking sexy.”  
“Oh. So, er, shall I keep it?”  
“Yes.”

Greg’s answers were short, and left no room for debate. He nodded and smiled, sliding his hands around the man’s waist. “I haven’t grown one in a while.”  
“Shame for everyone else.”  
Mycroft chuckled and pressed a kiss on Greg’s soft lips.

~

Greg’s hands skimmed over his skin as they moved against each other. The dark room was filled with panty breaths and gentle moans. They’d been there for ages, languidly playing and teasing each other. Greg had brought Mycroft close three times and let the moment peter off before building him up again.

Greg peppered kisses everywhere, and held onto Mycroft’s arms tightly as he slid in and out of him. Mycroft was sweaty, breathless, and his body was aching for release. He didn’t want the moment to end, but he was so utterly desperate to come.

He kissed Greg gently, whispering sweet nothings in his ear as he thrust. It was magnificent. The entire day had been. With a moan, Greg came between them. Mycroft finished not a moment later, ecstasy washing over him. He’d never been so sexually active in his life, but was loving it.

He pulled out and collapsed on the bed, reaching out to hold Greg… but grabbing only air.


	12. December 24, 2002 - Greg

Greg was stressed. It was almost time, and Johnson just wouldn’t get out of the room. He sat there, tapping his fingers impatiently on the bag resting upon his knees.  
“You alright, Lestrade?”  
“Fine,” Greg snarled.  
“I was only asking,” Johnson replied casually. “You’ve been in here a while.”  
“I said I’m fine.”

He wasn’t fine. His heart was hammering in his chest. _Please leave, please leave, please leave…_  
“Right, well, take it easy, Lestrade. See you later.”  
“Bye.”

Greg knew he was going to regret being harsh with the young man later, but at that moment, he couldn’t care less. As soon as he heard the door shut, he jumped up and left the cubicle. He dropped the bag on the floor and dragged the yellow sign out and put it in front of the door. He slipped back inside. There wasn’t any way he could physically lock the door, and so he had to hope people respected the ‘closed for cleaning’ sign.

He checked his watch. He had only a minute left. _Bugger that was close._ He picked up the bag and held it close to his chest as he waited.

Mycroft then appeared at his feet, in less than the blink of an eye. The man gasped, groaned, and then shouted.  
“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” Greg placated.  
“What… Gregory? W-why am I on the floor of a _men’s room_?”

Mycroft started picking himself up off the floor, his face a picture of disgust. Greg just stood there, holding the bag, looking painfully sympathetic. Mycroft looked ready to peel his skin off, and then murder Greg.

“I’m sorry.”  
“Sorry?” Mycroft snapped. “You knew this would happen! You’ve had a year!”  
“Well I didn’t exactly plan it to end up like this, now did I?” Greg shouted back. “It was unavoidable! This was the best I could come up with under the circumstances.”

Mycroft grimaced and then decided he would rather soap up his body than argue any longer. He turned, obviously put out, and started using the sink to wipe himself down. Greg could understand the man’s frustration and disgust. He didn’t know what he would have done in a similar situation.

“I’m in the running for promotion. The boss made it clear that I needed to do this shift. I think they were angry that I always had it off, every year. Gave me a run-down of how if I was serious about making Inspector, I had to learn to compromise and do what everyone else was willing to do.”

Mycroft sneered to the sink, before dropping his head. “I can understand that. I’m sorry for being so abrasive.”  
“I understand. It’s not exactly ideal.”  
Mycroft then gave him the most hilariously comedic ‘you think?’ eyebrow-raised looks. Greg chuckled, and then thrust out the bag towards him. “Thought you’d be needing these. All washed and folded.”

The man’s face crinkled in displeasure again, and Greg felt a little deflated.  
“You folded them? How long have they been folded?”  
Greg had to laugh. “Only today. I kept them hanging in my closet. I may have, uh, stroked it a bit over the year.” Greg tucked his chin into his chest. “And, maybe, um, smelled it.”

Mycroft huffed in amusement as he took his suit out of the bag. He then lifted the pants up and gave a questioning look at Greg.  
“Not those, I swear!”

“I understand you being forced to work this year, Gregory, however I still cannot work out why you elected to be _here_ at nine thirteen,” Mycroft mumbled as he dressed himself.  
“It’s the only place without cameras,” Greg explained.  
“Ah, of course.”  
“Can’t have you appearing out of thin air around Scotland Yard.”  
“Well, we can, however likely it wouldn’t be beneficial.”

Greg sighed. “It’s such a shame to see you put on clothes.”  
“When do you finish?” Mycroft asked, looking smug.  
“Another forty-five minutes.”  
“That seems enough time.” Mycroft looked at him slyly, in that posh controlled manner that sent blood rushing south.

He cleared his throat. “Right, well. Since you’re um, here, and we have to go, uh, out there–”  
“Perhaps compose yourself a little before exiting.”  
“It’s hard when you’re standing in front of me being all ginger beard and legs.” Greg swallowed. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing you all year. I haven’t jumped you because you seemed rather upset at first, and now… people would talk if they walked in and saw me snogging the life out of you in the gent’s.”  
“It’s not locked?!” Mycroft looked horrified.  
“It doesn’t lock! I put a ‘closed for cleaning’ sign out, but yeah, someone could still physically get in.”

Mycroft shuffled immediately towards the door, and Greg followed with a grin.

~

Greg knelt over Myc on the couch, kissing him. He could tell the man wasn’t used to such attention, having someone _very_ interested in him in his lap, and Greg was loving every audible moan he was able to get out of him.

He’d put out a few more fairy lights this year, since Mycroft said he liked them. Just the warm white ones, though. Mycroft was very clear how much he despised the coloured ones. It was nice to be able to share intimate moments with Myc just by fairy-light, without the need of lamps.

This year Greg had dried an orange slice, and let Mycroft thread some twine through it and hang it up. It glistened in the light. His shoebox of ornaments had started smelling of cinnamon, as well as pine, and so thought some other smells would make it nice and Christmas-y.

The music on his CD player ended. He’d kept the same disks over the years, associating those songs with Christmas.  
“I’ll just change disks,” he uttered, kissing Mycroft’s long nose.  
“Or you could leave it for the night. You did have a late one with work.”  
“Oh, Jesus, is that the time? It just flies when I’m with you.”

Mycroft kissed him. “Come on. Bed.”  
Greg slid off Mycroft’s lap and started leading him to the bedroom. He then stopped dead as a thought struck him. “Myc,” he said, his tone a lot more serious than it had been moments ago. “You’d tell me if you weren’t into it, right?”  
“Whatever do you mean?”  
“It’s… I know I seem, well, enthusiastic. I just haven’t seen you in so long each time. But I know that for you… it’s every day. I-I don’t want you to just let me do things to you that you don’t want, or just tolerate it with the understanding of why, because I couldn’t–”  
“Shh, Gregory, calm down. It’s fine. I enjoy all of the attention you lavish upon me. After so many years of dreaming, wishing, hoping, pining… I can’t get enough.”

The uncomfortable knot in Greg’s stomach eased at that. “Good,” he breathed, sighing with relief. Mycroft then leaned in and kissed him again.  
“I deeply appreciate your consideration, though.”  
“Always. Seriously, though… if you just want to cuddle, that’s totally fine with me too, you know.”  
“Oh, I definitely want to cuddle. After.” Mycroft smiled slyly at him, and Greg’s heart leapt.

~

Instead of lunch, Greg decided to do a special early dinner. He set the table with candles, his finest dinnerware, a nice bottle of red, and some wooden snowflakes.

Mycroft’s face glowed in the firelight. Greg couldn’t help but just stare, admiring the way Myc’s pale skin radiated the warm glow and the flickering glint in his eyes.

The music was soft. He’d bought a CD especially for the evening – a mix of Christmas themes played in a calm piano or guitar. When he’d seen it, he instantly bought it. Mycroft was the piano, and he the guitar – in his mind, at least.

He held Mycroft’s hand on the table as they talked. It was above a whisper, but not loud. Just intimate. Greg knew that his love really enjoyed desserts, and so had worked at making a layered chocolate mousse from scratch topped with cherries. It was following a course of turkey and lingonberry sauce with vegetables.

Everything, including breathing, was easier around Mycroft. He felt warm and at peace. It was only since Mycroft came into his life did he really understand the concept of ‘peace, love, joy’ that was always broadcast at Christmas. He’d never thought that being around family, as one did at this time of year, could blend with those feelings.

That was until Mycroft became his family.

He picked up the soft hand under his own and pressed his lips to it. “I love you.”  
“I love you too.”  
“I know you said Tempest can’t, or won’t, let you stay. I still wish it could be.”  
“As do I,” Mycroft responded, his voice strained.

Greg reached out over the table and cupped the man’s cheek. He stroked his thumb over the skin over the cheekbone. “It’ll be alright love.”  
“You go through so much for so little time with me.”  
“Things’ll change in a few years. We just have to look forward to that.”

Mycroft nodded and sniffed. It hurt Greg to see how much his partner was upset by the situation. It was also extremely gratifying, in the way that he was assured how deeply Mycroft cared for him to be upset like this at the idea of his loneliness and suffering.

“What then?” Mycroft asked, his voice small.  
“Then… we can continue.”  
“I don’t understand how it’ll work to change my own past.” Mycroft looked down at the empty glass before him where his mousse had been. “Changing what was would change how I interacted with you at the start, which would change how you interact with me again… it’s a feedback loop.”  
“I don’t know, dear. I’m not smart like you.”  
“I’m not smart like me anymore,” Mycroft whimpered. “Not since Sherrinford.”

Greg swallowed and looked at the anguish so clear on Mycroft’s face. “You always look distraught when you mention that name.”  
“It’s a place.”  
“Oh. Well, whatever happened there… it looks like it broke you.” Greg tried not to sound derisive, keeping his tone full of care and devotion.  
“It did.”

“Do you… I know I’ve said nothing each time it was mentioned, but did you want to talk about it?”  
Mycroft looked up at him, his gaze so pleading and lost it broke Greg’s heart.  
“Oh, sweetheart… hey, come on, I’m here,” Greg cooed, standing up and pulling Mycroft into a hug while he stood.

Mycroft let tears fall as he held onto Greg’s middle. Greg continued to run his hand up and down Mycroft’s back, the silk of his waistcoat smooth to the touch. Greg kicked himself; they’d been having a lovely romantic time and then he’d ruined it by bringing up pain. Yet, deep down, Greg felt that it was good. It wasn’t healthy for Mycroft to continue keeping these toxic emotions inside himself.

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft mumbled.  
“No. Don’t. It’s ok. It’s good to get it out. I’m here for you, Myc. I’m always going to be here for you.”  
“I can’t help but think… when we meet the first time, things will change in my past and then I’ll cease to exist. I just stop coming to you, and it’ll be another me that gets to live with you.”  
“No, Myc, I don’t wan–”  
“It’ll be ok,” Mycroft interjected. “That Mycroft won’t have to live through Sherrinford… at least, not alone.”

Greg just continued to stroke Mycroft’s hair. “This Mycroft isn’t alone either.”

He tugged Mycroft back into the bedroom, saying he wanted to cuddle him while he spoke. Greg knew that Mycroft had trouble expressing emotional things, and thought that it would be easiest for him to talk when not having to be seen. This way, Greg could still be there supporting him while giving him the space to speak.

He listened with a heavy heart as Mycroft talked about what had brought him to the bridge that night. Greg didn’t ask many questions, and was curious about his future-self – Mycroft deliberately left out a lot of Greg’s involvement, presumably to preserve the timeline – but constantly kept his body pressed up behind Mycroft’s.

His partner’s breathing quickened and his body tensed as he spoke of what happened at Sherrinford. Greg was glad that he was able to ease that with kisses and soft strokes. Mycroft still cried, and while Greg tried to assure him it was ok, the man tried to keep it silent.

By the end of the tale, Greg was feeling anger towards Mycroft’s parents, shock, some confusion, but mostly sympathetic sorrow for his love. He just held him in the quiet, letting his physical displays of support be enough.

“Thank you for sharing that with me,” he whispered.  
“Mhm,” Mycroft hummed.  
“No, I’m serious. It was tough to say, and personal. I’m honoured you trust me enough.”  
“There is no one I trust more.”  
“Do you feel better, having gotten it out?”  
“I feel… relieved,” Mycroft spoke. “It was like it was a huge ball of pressure inside me and talking about it released that pressure.”  
“I’m glad.”

“Greg?”  
“Yeah?”  
“Next year… will you hold me again? Like this? It’s almost time, and I-I don’t want to be–”  
“Of course. I promise.”


	13. December 24, 2003 - Mycroft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried hard to make the Portuguese the same as in the film, but it's insanely hard to find. That's why it's a tiny bit different from google translate. Sorry!

The warmth had disappeared from his back and his heart clenched. A slight sob escaped his lips.  
“Shh, love, I’m here,” Greg uttered from behind him.

Greg’s strong form once again embraced him, a hand slipping under his arm and gripping his chest. Mycroft felt his body tremble with the emotions overwhelming him. _Greg stayed. He promised and he kept it. He’s here._

“I will always be here when you need me,” Greg said gently into his ear.  
“Thank you,” he choked out. “I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve you.”  
“You showed me what it’s like to be truly loved. That’s all you needed to do, Myc. You’re kind, caring, considerate, intelligent, and gorgeous. That’s all just more reason for me to love you truly too.”

He lay there, unable to say anything else. _Greg’s more kind and caring than I am. If someone like him could think that I am, then… maybe he’s not wrong? He obviously knows what it means to be like that…_

~

Greg had made him some warm tea. They didn’t have dinner this year, since they’d had a large one last year (only a few hours ago for Mycroft). Greg let him take as much time as he needed to compose himself. Strangely, despite feeling wrung out, he felt closer to his partner.

“How was your year, my love?”  
“Long,” Greg said, strained. “Working a lot. I know I put more into the job than I really should, but I guess I just don’t like coming back to a home that you should be in waiting for me. At least what I’m doing is important. Makes it worth it. Sometimes.”  
“I’m sorry.”  
“You say that every year. Every year I tell you not to be; it’s not your fault.”

“I had a lot of cases,” Greg continued once it was clear Mycroft wasn’t going to answer. “The Inspector is taking me out and seeing what I can do a lot. He’s giving me more to do. I think he’s testing me out for Inspector.”  
“You are a wonderful Inspector.”  
“When do I get the promotion?”

Mycroft smiled into his tea. Greg shook his head and chuckled.  
“Anything interesting besides work happen?”  
“Not really,” Greg responded. He shrugged. “I joined a football league on the force. I’m getting middle aged and pudgy.”  
“You are not.” Mycroft made sure his voice left no room for argument.

He put his tea on the table. “You, Gregory Lestrade, are the sexiest man alive for a good ten years yet. I can actually inform you of this.”  
Greg laughed, but looked at him fondly. “I guess you’re the only one who’d actually know. I’m just curious how that can be when you’re alive then too.”  
Mycroft huffed. “That’s sweet of you to say. However–”

Greg pressed his fingers to Mycroft’s lips to stop him talking. Mycroft looked at him curiously, but Greg just shook his head while smiling. Greg then kissed him gently at first, escalating to a passionate snog.

“Let me show you,” Greg uttered, his voice sultry.  
“Show me?”  
“Mhm,” the man hummed, kissing him again. “Let me hold you and make you understand how precious you are to me.”

~

Mycroft stared at the ceiling. Greg’s arm was upon his chest, and the man softly snored beside him. He was still feeling uneasy about the Sherrinford debacle he’d brought up, but Gregory’s presence was amazingly effective at quelling the negative emotions.

_I’d spend my life with you, every day, if I could. If only I’d known what I could have had at the beginning. Things could have turned out so different._

“Awh, look at you two.”  
Mycroft jumped, causing Gregory to mumble and shuffle in his sleep. His eyes fell on Tempest, standing in the doorway and leaning against the frame. He instinctively pulled the covers up to hide his chest.  
“Pfft,” she huffed. “Seen it, and believe me I have no interest in seeing it again or more.”

Mycroft clenched his jaw, looking at Greg slumbering soundly. “What are you doing here?” he whispered.  
Tempest ignored him, instead continuing to stare.

“So, he meets you in the coming year, right?”  
“No,” Mycroft answered, still quiet enough not to rouse Gregory. “That’s in 2005.”  
“Right. And it’s now…?”  
“2003.”

Tempest nodded. “Cool. Oops,” she said, and then disappeared.  
“Tempest? Tempest!” Mycroft hissed, but the noise was stirring his bed mate.  
“Wuhsat?” Greg mumbled, shuffling.  
“Nothing, love. Go back to sleep.” Mycroft leant over and pressed a kiss to his forehead. Greg quickly drifted back to a sound sleep, draped over Mycroft’s chest.

~

“I’ve heard it’s really good. I booked our tickets the moment it was possible, so I didn’t know beforehand.”

Mycroft happily ignored the looks they got as they walked hand-in-hand to the cinema. He’d never gone to see a film with a date before; he knew it was something people often did in their youth, and so was excited to be finally partaking in the activity.

“The woman that I went to about it… I asked her if there were any Christmas movies showing on Christmas day. She said to me that they couldn’t making bookings in advance of the release, and she didn’t know which ones were going to be released.”  
“Mhm.”  
“I said that my partner was only coming to see me on Christmas day, and wanted to do something special. She said there was nothing she could do, and that I should either come back when bookings open or find another activity.”

“I see,” Mycroft added, still not quite used to participating in small talk.  
“So then I was thinking, damn, I’ll have to be on the ball with it… but then I noticed that she had a little rainbow bracelet. So I took my chance. I said to her, with a sigh, ‘damn. There’s not a lot that he’s comfortable doing in public together, and I’m a detective who works long hours so getting back in time is hard. I really don’t want to disappoint him’.”

“And she gave you tickets?”  
“No. She looked sympathetic at me, and told me in confidence the day bookings _actually_ opened, a week before official release, and so to come in then and show a card that she gave me.”

Greg looked proud of himself. Mycroft smiled at him. “Thank you for your hard work. You are correct when you say it is a good film. ‘ _Love Actually_ ’ is considered by many to be a classic Christmas film, as far as I am aware. I have never seen it. It focused too much on an area with which I was not familiar.”  
Greg swung closer and grabbed Mycroft by the elbow, interlocking their arms. “Now you are very familiar,” he said softly.  
“Indeed.”

When they took their seats, Greg nuzzled his neck and pecked a kiss upon his cheek. Mycroft blushed but smiled and took Greg’s hand. They’d bought some popcorn to share, and Greg insisted Mycroft keep it in his lap. Mycroft felt his heart pound each time Gregory reached in and take some.

Unfortunately, there was a couple – wealthy for middle class, but desperate to maintain image, he instantly recognised – that protested their presence. Mycroft wanted to just sink away and not cause a fuss… he was unaccustomed to being honestly powerless regarding the situation, and it relating to an emotional matter made it difficult for him.

The couple sneered, and when Greg leant in to kiss Mycroft’s cheek again, the man stood and shouted at them, “that’s enough, you disgusting poofs!”

The cinema of people, mostly average couples, turned to watch – the film hadn’t started, nor had the pre-show advertising.

“Sinners,” the woman sneered at them, standing closely behind her angry husband.  
“Sir, please be quiet, the film is about to start,” an employee said from the bottom of the stairs.  
“Not until you remove this filth from the room!”

The employee just looked at Mycroft and Greg, and then back to the enraged man. “Sir,” she said carefully, “these two men are not breaking any rules. They have a right to be here as much as anyone else. If you do not wish to be in their company, you may leave.”  
“I’m not leaving when the cause is their disgraceful behaviour.”

The employee walked up the steps to stand on the level Greg and Mycroft were sitting at, looking two rows back at the upset couple. “Sir, if you do not stop this, you will be asked to leave. We do not tolerate hate speech here.”

That seemed to enrage the man further. “I’ll drag them out myself if I have to!” he shouted.  
“Sir, leave before I contact the police.”  
“They aren’t going to do anything! I’m not in the wrong here!” the man shouted.  
“Actually,” Greg piped up. He lifted his badge up and showed it clearly to the man. “I’m already here and I’ll tell you that yes, you are.”

The man looked affronted. He grabbed his wife’s hand and tugged her out of the cinema, shooting them both dirty looks on the way. Mycroft only felt able to breathe once they’d left the room.

A lone person started clapping the moment the couple left. Another joined, and soon, the whole cinema was applauding them. The employee apologised and wished them an enjoyable viewing, just as the film started to roll. Mycroft smiled and gripped Greg’s hand tighter.

~

Mycroft was surprised that he honestly enjoyed the movie. He loved that they’d tried to make it more complex than just a simple romance film, and that it actually involved a lot more than just ‘happily ever after’ love.

Still, the part he loved most was Greg’s company. The man laughed, he cried, he watched the screen with such enthusiasm… it was tempting to miss parts of the film in favour for watching his expressions. They lent against each other, and at one point Greg slid his arm over Mycroft’s shoulders.

“That was brilliant, wasn’t it?”  
“Yes, I agree with you. I enjoyed the experience.”  
“Which was your favourite?”  
“Favourite?”  
“Yeah. Couple, or, like, story-thing.”  
“Oh,” Mycroft said. “I connected with the woman who put her own life and love on hold to care for her family.” Greg squeezed his hand supportively at that, and Mycroft felt a surge of affection for his partner. “However,” he continued, “I believe my favourite ‘love tale’ was that of the writer and the Portuguese maid.”  
“Oh, I loved that one too. Bit like us, in many ways, eh?”

Mycroft nodded at Greg. Yes, that was a big part of why that story had struck a chord with him.  
“Being separated, connecting a little, falling in love, doing what we could to be together and finally coming together in the end.”  
“Yes,” Mycroft agreed. He desperately hoped that could be their ending too.

“It’d happen a little differently, for us, though,” Greg mused.  
“Oh?”  
“Well, I don’t have to learn Portuguese to talk to you!”  
“Eu poderia lhe ensinar,” Mycroft said. _I could make you_.

Greg stopped dead in his tracks, walking back to his flat. He looked at Mycroft incredulously. Mycroft smiled, half-warmly and half-proudly. He took Greg’s hands and looked into his eyes, saying softly, “É a parte mais triste do meu dia, te deixar.”

Greg looked confused for a minute, but then understood. He stepped forward and held Mycroft in close, resting his head on Mycroft’s shoulder. “It’s the saddest part of my year, when you leave.”

Mycroft ran his hand up and stroked Greg’s back for a moment. Greg then took a deep breath and stepped back, putting on a smile.  
“Maybe I can learn to propose to you in Portuguese, for when we meet not on Christmas.”  
“At least you would be accurately retelling the script,” Mycroft chuckled.  
“Oi, come off it,” Greg said, shoving Mycroft playfully with his shoulder.

They walked some more, Greg looping his arm around Mycroft’s again. “Nah, don’t worry. I’ll propose to you in English. Just as romantic, but yeah, don’t want to cock it up.”  
“You’re going to?”  
“Of course, Mycroft. You’re the love of my life.”

Mycroft’s head was reeling, but he kept a calm exterior. _Greg wants to marry me? Seriously? He honestly wants to choose me to spend the rest of his life with._ His heart swelled and he felt the cold sting from tears in his eyes meeting the chilly breeze of the evening.


	14. December 24, 2004 - Greg

Greg pulled out all of the decorations from his shoebox. The orange had balanced with the cinnamon nicely, and with last year’s addition of a star anise glued to a wood slice, the box _smelled_ of Christmas.

He was hoping for a mellow Christmas this year. He’d gotten the news at the start of December that he was going to be promoted to Inspector next year. Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. He liked the sound of that, but knew it also came with a lot more stress. He wanted to relax as much as possible before it all started.

The tree was decorated, the gifts under them (he’d gotten Mycroft some new socks and pants, knowing it was awkward for him to keep washing his, as well as some nice chocolates and a vibrating prostate massager), and the ornaments were now hung.

They were going to have dinner tonight, and so Greg had prepared some Italian food. He had the wine breathing, the bread in the oven, and the sauce resting. He’d also made a meringue and gelato dessert.

Mycroft appeared standing in the middle of the living room. He had his arms out, where he’d been holding Greg’s hands. Greg stepped in and held them again, meeting the man’s eyes as he opened them.

“Happy New Year,” Greg said to him.  
“Merry Christmas,” Mycroft replied. “But yours is equally appropriate.”

Greg kissed him slowly, letting himself fall into the kiss and the man’s embrace. It was like warmth finally returning inside him after a week camping in the snow, like coming home after a fourteen-hour day, like being hugged from the inside out.

“I have good news,” Greg said, beaming. He led Mycroft to the kitchen table.  
“You are being promoted,” Mycroft answered casually, which knocked the wind out from under Greg’s sails. He then shot him a cheeky grin.  
“Oi, quit it, Mr I-know-the-future.”  
“Honestly Greg, it’s an amazing accomplishment. It’s very well deserved.”  
“Thank you.” Greg seated himself and Mycroft joined. “I have been working hard.”  
“In lieu of other things in your life, yes,” Mycroft uttered sadly.

Greg took his hand. “Hey, no. None of that. I’m sure I would be as dedicated if I didn’t have you.”  
Mycroft nodded. “You are that, indeed.”  
“The other good news is we’re having Italian.”  
“Oh. Lovely. Did you make it yourself?”  
“Yep! Everything except the pasta itself, and the gelato.”

Greg’s heart clenched when he saw how Mycroft perked up at the mention of sweets. “You have such a sweet tooth.”  
Mycroft blushed. Greg chuckled. “It’s not a bad thing dear. It’s nice to know that I can make you happy so easily.”  
“You do that without needing anything else.”

Mycroft leaned back, relaxing.  
“Wine?” Greg asked.  
“Please.”  
“I know it’ll not be the fancy stuff you like, but–”  
“It’ll be fine,” Mycroft interrupted. Greg nodded and poured them each a glass.

“I’m interested in how the team will be different next year. We’re getting a couple of newbies, a Sergeant, and a Constable.”  
“From memory, the constable will transfer within six months, and the Sergeant will become the woman you work closely with for a good portion of your career.”  
“Oh. Well… good to know, I guess. Are you sure you’re not making those kinds of things happen by telling me about it?”  
“Predeterminism? Perhaps.” Mycroft shrugged. “It hardly matters in the grand scheme of things. What _does_ matter, is that you and I shall meet in the year to come.”

Greg’s throat closed over with anticipation. “R-really?”  
Mycroft nodded, looking both relieved and overjoyed. “I don’t know what’s going to happen, but this,” he waved his hand in the air, “will all change for the better.”  
“I’ll get to see you during the year.” Greg frowned into his wine. “I’m not sure how I’ll cope with that. I’m used to seeing you now, and knowing you as you are now.”  
“Given how unattractive I have always been, I doubt it would matter–”  
“Don’t you dare, Mycroft Holmes,” Greg growled. “I’ll hear none of that in my presence.”

Mycroft looked taken aback at the tone. Greg put his wine down. “I’ll not stand for anyone talking bad about you, and that includes you.”  
“But I’m only being–”  
“Nahuh,” Greg interrupted, putting his hand up. “No. You’re fucking drop dead gorgeous as you are now, and you’ll be just as handsome when I meet you.”

Mycroft took the hint not to argue. Greg nodded, satisfied, and relaxed back in his chair.  
“I will be different, though,” Mycroft said shyly. Greg tilted his head. “I’ll be very stand-offish. Aloof. Arrogant. Attempting to be intimidating.”  
“Right. So there’s more to that mask I see you wear sometimes?”  
“Quite. I wasn’t called the Iceman for nothing.”  
“People called you that?”

Mycroft sunk and nodded. “It was an image I needed to maintain, in my job.” He took a deep breath. “No more, though. Not after Sherrinford.”  
“When it became clear that it was all a façade, Myc, not that you became weak by caring. You’ve always cared. It’s what motivates us all the most. Sometimes they end up being the wrong decisions in the end, but that doesn’t mean we were wrong to care.”

Mycroft remained sitting stoic, and so Greg stood and pulled him in close for a hug. He ran his hand up and down the man’s back a few times, and pressed a kiss to his head.  
“I’ll serve up dinner, hey?”

~

“It’s gorgeous,” Greg said as Mycroft handed him the ornament.  
“It’s simple,” Mycroft responded humbly.

It was that, Greg could agree, but it was still lovely. They’d collected some sticks out on their walk, only thin twigs, but they were all roughly the same thickness. Mycroft had threaded the six together and then used some twine to tie them at the ends to form a five-point star.

Greg threaded another piece of twine through one of the points to hang it up with the rest of them. Mycroft threaded his fingers through Greg’s and placed a kiss on his cheek. Greg smiled and leaned to the side in a half-cuddle.

He then stepped away and fished something out from beside the bookshelf – his guitar. Greg lifted it up into his lap. “I, er, I’ve practiced playing something for you this year,” he said shyly.  
Mycroft looked anticipant, and pleased, and so Greg began to play.

His stomach was tense at the beginning, but as he started, he drifted into the flow of the music. The soft guitar was soothing, matching the tone set by the lights of the tree and decorations.

It was a slower tempo than the usual song, but Greg couldn’t help but be emotional as he played. It also wasn’t the style he was used to playing, and so the slower pace helped. He closed his eyes, and then inclined his head to look at the guitar.

He finished, looking into Mycroft’s shining eyes. He said nothing, just held the emotional gaze.  
“I’ll be home for Christmas,” Mycroft uttered. Greg nodded. “Thank you.”  
“It’s rather appropriate for me,” Greg said as he put his guitar down.

Mycroft stood and stepped closer. He reached his hand out for Greg to take, and then lifted him to his feet. He then cupped both of his cheeks and kissed him lovingly. Greg melted into the touch, wrapping his arms around Mycroft’s slender body.

They kissed for some time, slowly, gently, passionately. Mycroft used his nose to nuzzle Greg’s cheek, and Greg let his hands roam up Mycroft’s sides.

“I wish I had a fireplace,” Greg breathed against Mycroft’s lips.  
“The fairy lights are just as romantic,” Mycroft responded, looking deeply into his eyes.  
“I think you should open one of your gifts tonight.”  
“Oh? And which would that be?”

Greg pressed another intimate kiss on the man’s lips and pulled him over to the tree. He passed the one in question over to him. “Open it in the bedroom. There’s batteries in there.”

Mycroft gave him a sly and utterly salacious quirk of the eyebrow before standing and following him.

~

It was late afternoon. Greg had just finished clearing the dishes (he always cleaned them the next day; he wasn’t going to waste his one day washing dishes) from their chicken burger lunch, and was putting their usual Christmas Day movie on.

“This one came out last year, and was just released on DVD. I haven’t actually seen it – I heard good things about it, but I wanted to save it for with you.”  
“Is it another one of your children’s movies?” Mycroft asked, looking at the cover.  
“Yes, I guess, but it’s a family one and I’ve heard adults enjoy it as well.”  
“Often times it’s not necessarily the movie I enjoy during this tradition,” Mycroft chuckled.

Greg returned to the couch after placing the disk in. “Yeah I know, you’re all for the cuddles.” He pressed a kiss on the man’s lips. “Don’t worry love, you’ll get those too.”

Mycroft wrapped his arms tightly around Greg and buried his face into Greg’s neck. It was warm and a little tickly; Greg loved it. Mycroft really was a very tactile person once his guard was down.

“Thank god for these DVDs, though, eh?”  
“What do you mean?”  
“Having videos used to take up so much room. These disks are so thin, I could have twice or more the amount of movies in the same space. And the best thing… you don’t even have to rewind them to start again! I can skip through scenes, back and forth, and they don’t degrade from use and time.”  
“Well, they do, however at a much slower rate.” Mycroft repositioned his chin against Greg’s shoulder. “I thought you had a player last year?”  
“I did, I bought one when they went on sale at the end of 2002. Bloody saw them cheaper in the stores not six months later, didn’t I? But I don’t mind. It’s still a great device. They’ll completely take over from tapes, I reckon.”  
“You’re correct. They will also be outdated themselves.”

Greg turned to him in shock. “Seriously? What even by?”  
“Well, first BluRay will come out, but that won’t edge out the DVDs entirely. The internet is what really takes off after DVDs.”  
“Seriously?”  
“Yes. Right now, the internet will quickly evolve into a more social community-driven platform that will encompass most people in the developed world. Speeds will increase, data transference will increase, and the capacity for computers to process and store information will also dramatically increase.”

Greg took the information in, ignoring the waiting screen of the DVD.  
“So everything just keeps getting bigger? That sounds a bit annoying, actually.”  
“No, physical sizes reduce exponentially whilst their digital sizes increase. USB drives have gotten only marginally smaller physically compared to other hard drives, but the–”  
“USB?”  
“Oh. Replaces the floppy disk.”  
“Ah, right. Good, I hate those things. I’m glad they’re not just getting bigger.”  
“Yes. Don’t bother purchasing a large size USB for a few years, though. The price drops insanely while the storage space increases after the first year or so of release.”  
“Thanks for the tip. We gonna watch this now, or what?”

Mycroft hummed and chuckled into his ear. “Yes, let’s watch this ‘Elves’. And here I thought you’d be interested in learning about the future.”  
“‘ _Elf_ ’,” he corrected. “Not as much as I am interested in spending time with you.”  
“I love you,” Mycroft uttered. He rested his cheek against Greg’s arm. “So much.”  
“I love you too, Myc.”

He pressed play on the remote and snuggled back into his partner with a blanket.

~

“I’ll see you very soon, my darling,” Mycroft said, his face beaming.  
“Yeah. For me this time too.” Greg held onto Mycroft’s hands and stared into those glistening grey-blue eyes. “What do I do if you don’t believe me?”

Mycroft looked pensive. “You’ll have to tell me something that I’ve never told anyone else. Something no one else would know.”  
“And what would that be? That I know you have a sister?”  
“No, that’ll just land you on the potential most-wanted list.”

His partner looked pained, and took a deep breath. Mycroft looked away. “When I was a child, I was fat. Actually fat, I mean. Not just how I feel fat now.”

Greg couldn’t bear to hear the pain in Mycroft’s voice as he spoke. He stepped close and embraced him.

“I was only ten,” Mycroft continued into the hug. “But I was still much larger than I should have been. Sherlock was only three, and he was a nightmare to watch. Always running off, the curious little devil. He…”  
“It’s ok Myc, you can tell me something else?”  
“No. No it has to be this. Only this would be something I’d tell only someone I loved.”

Greg nodded, understanding, but didn’t stop hugging him. Mycroft took a breath.

“Sherlock was running about playing pirates. He loved pirates, even at that age. I followed him through the forest around Musgrave Hall. There was an abandoned pile of scraps there. Something Sherlock and I by rights had no reason to be around, but to that little boy, it was a playground. I told him to stay away from the pile, only look on the outside.  
“One afternoon, we were there, and he decided he would run off. I chased him, and he ran into the junk heap through a concrete pipe. I dived in after him; I didn’t know what dangers were there! But I-I got stuck. In the pipe.”

“Oh, love,” Greg said gently. He stroked Mycroft’s back.  
“Sherlock writhed out of my grasp and ran off. I shouted at him, but he didn’t come back. I… I couldn’t get myself out. I panicked. It was my first real panic attack. I screamed, I shouted, I begged for someone to help… but there was no one there.”

“Myc.” Greg squeezed tighter. “That’s terrible.”  
“I eventually managed to get myself out. I scratched myself up fairly badly, and tore my clothes. I searched for Sherlock, but I couldn’t find him. I started panicking about that too. I ran back to the house to find Sherlock safe and sound, and my parents there fuming. I was berated and punished severely for being so careless and irresponsible. I never told a sole about what happened.”

Greg continued to run his hand up and down Mycroft’s back. He pulled back and looked at him. “Why not?”  
“I was ashamed, and I was afraid of being yelled at more. And then it was buried deep down inside me for so long, it became a very vulnerable memory. I had to bury a lot of memories of my childhood.”

Mycroft had a tear running down his cheek. Greg wiped it with his thumb and kissed him. “I’m here now. I’m sorry you were alone back then, and I’m glad you felt you could share this with me. You’re not alone anymore.”

“No,” Mycroft agreed. He took another breath and slumped forward into another hug.


	15. December 24, 2005 - Mycroft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok. 
> 
> This. 
> 
> All I'll say: it gets better. Promise.

Mycroft felt the warmth around him from Greg’s hug disappear. His heart leapt, and he stood there just holding his eyes closed as he waited. He didn’t know what was going to happen, but he waited for _something_.

He had to blink his eyes open when nothing happened. There were no new memories. He frowned. _Maybe I don’t get to have the new memories? Maybe I’m now ‘that alternate reality Mycroft who never had Gregory’?_

He looked about and his heart clenched, and not in a good way. The flat was different. It was the same one, but things had changed. The decorations weren’t up this year.  
 _Had something happened between myself – or the other me – and Gregory?_

Mycroft looked about for Greg. The place was empty. “Greg?” he called, hoping Gregory was just in the other room. The place was dark, though. There were no fairy lights on, just the kitchen one. The atmosphere felt significantly less joyous than it had been moments ago.

“Gregory?”

Still there was no response. He padded towards the kitchen, looking about. He noticed a bottle of cheap whisky in the recycling. He pursed his lips, feeling a sense of foreboding. He couldn’t help but be worried.

He walked into the bedroom and saw Greg there, asleep. He called out again, but there was no response. He stifled the anxiety and went up to check on his partner. _Still breathing, steady pulse._

“Gregory.” Mycroft shook Greg’s shoulder. The man snorted when he drew in breath.  
“Huh? Oh…” Greg’s eyes went wide. “Myc… my god, Mycroft.”  
“What is it, love? What’s happened?”  
“N-nothing,” Greg stammered. He tried to sit up, but then grabbed his head. “I… nothing. Fuck.”

Mycroft tilted his head. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”  
“I met you, like you said I would.”  
“And?”  
“And…” Greg’s face dropped in anguish. He looked into Mycroft’s eyes, his own welling with tears. “And I didn’t remember you.”

The pit of Mycroft’s stomach dropped and he blanched. “W-what? What do you mean?”  
“I mean when you kidnapped me, I didn’t recognise you. I didn’t remember you at all. This… all of this,” he indicated between them, “was gone.”

Mycroft remained very still, trying to process it. Greg looked distraught and about to cry. He leaned forward into Mycroft’s chest, who reflexively embraced him.  
“God, Myc, I didn’t remember you at all this year,” he sobbed, and Mycroft’s heart broke.  
“Not at all?” he managed to choke out.  
Greg sniffled and shook his head. “Nope. I-It wasn’t until you woke me th-that I remembered that I’ve spent every C-Christmas with you since that n-night on the bridge. It’s like all the memories are j-just gone. I-I don’t r-remember any of it, and d-didn’t notice even that there were blanks.”

Mycroft ran his fingers through Greg’s hair gently, trying to understand. Intellectually he understood, but emotionally was another story. He’d spent so long desperately hoping, waiting for the time they’d meet and thinking it’d all be ok… and now, now it was looking to all have been in vain.

His body shook. He took some steady breaths as the torment roiled into a white-hot anger inside him. “Tempest!” he screamed, standing. “Tempest! Show yourself!”  
“Mycroft,” Greg started to say, but Mycroft was too upset to pay him any mind.  
“Tempest get your inconsiderate indolent arse here this instant!”

He rarely became angry enough to call people names or have the need to shout, usually instead becoming the calm, collected individual who looked too dangerous to challenge. He had no power against the Winter Light Spirit, and so he could rage all he liked.

“Fucking face me and explain!”  
“Mycroft!” Greg snapped, shocked. Mycroft turned to look at him, but then stormed out of the bedroom.  
“Tempest!”

An arm grabbed him. He turned to Greg’s concerned expression. “Myc, please… calm down,” the man pleaded.  
“She… she…”  
“Yes, I know,” Greg placated. “But screaming isn’t going to help. Fuck, I’m usually the one doing the shouting, so I know.”

Mycroft’s lip quivered and he felt his knees go weak. Tears welled and his throat closed. “She… we…” he started, but he couldn’t strain any more words out.  
“I know, love,” Greg cooed, embracing him in a solemn hug. “I know.”

Mycroft cried into Greg. He held onto Greg’s strong body, still in only his pants, and let his emotions out. They remained standing there for some time. Mycroft’s cries dulled down, and they ended up just holding each other in the stark kitchen light.

“Come on. Let’s get the decorations out. We’ll go out and get another one. We can still have each other like we have all those other years,” Greg said, his voice hopeful.  
“This was supposed to be the end of this one-a-day thing,” Mycroft mumbled, dejected. “If you can’t remember me… then it’s just going to be another ten years of this.”  
“I might remember next time? I might decide this time around to make a move?”

Mycroft didn’t feel confident. He felt horrible. His mother had told him once that he should never hope for anything, since he’ll only end up hurting. Sure, it had been when he was a child over merely a toy, but it still had stayed with him. He never did get what he’d hoped for Christmas, and he’d forever wondered if it was her way of showing him what it was like to feel hope and have it crushed.

“Hey,” Greg said gently, cupping his face. “We still have today.”  
Mycroft nodded. He didn’t want to bring Greg down when he was trying so hard. “The same park, then?”

They walked hand-in-hand for a while through the park. It was cold and a bit damp, but at least not raining. They didn’t talk much, the atmosphere between them still sombre. Greg leaned against Mycroft’s body as they walked.

“It’s hard, not remembering. You’d think it’d be easier, not longing for you… but it’s not, Myc. I know you’re thinking it.”  
Mycroft grunted uncertainly. He had been thinking it, trying to appease his emotions that this way at least Greg was better off for most of the year.

“I’m left feeling like something’s missing,” Greg continued. “For so many years I’ve always had this feeling of not being alone, that there’s someone who loves me deeply out there – unconditionally, entirely, through anything. I know you aren’t actually a Christmas Spirit watching over me, but for a while there I thought you were. And even since, I’ve just felt like you were around with me.”

Mycroft didn’t answer. He just clenched his jaw. Greg stopped walking by the duck pond and turned to face him.  
“I don’t miss you but I feel the missing. Empty, almost. Waiting for something, but not knowing what. You are a part of my soul, Mycroft, whether I remember you or not. You’re that much a part of me.”

Mycroft’s lip trembled and he held Greg close again. “And you are for me.”  
“It’s probably why I took a chance on Sherlock. I couldn’t explain it. He wasn’t just another junkie kid. I mean, I would have helped him either way, that’s just who I am… but that feeling of something different, him being special – besides the obvious, that is – it was unexplainable.”

Greg stepped back from the hug and touched Mycroft’s cheek gently. He then bent down, and picked up a large white feather. Greg twirled it in his fingers for a moment, and then passed it to Mycroft.  
“You’re still my Guardian Angel,” Greg said.  
Mycroft just looked at the feather. “Even if you feel like you’ve been alone all this time?”  
“Even then.”

~

Things felt better once they’d hung all the decorations up, the feather included. Greg still looked like he wasn’t telling him something, but Mycroft was honestly a bit afraid of the answer and so didn’t push it.

They had dinner, just a scrounge of what was in the house, since Greg hadn’t prepared anything this year. It was still nice. Mycroft tried to help, but wasn’t exactly the most handy helper in the kitchen. Greg ended up dismissing him from the kitchen.

Sitting on the couch, Mycroft felt like bringing up something that had been on his mind. “The place has changed a bit,” he said, looking about.  
“Yeah,” Greg answered, looking uncomfortable. He then put his wine on the coffee table and cleared his throat. “Look, Myc, I have to tell you something.”

Mycroft’s stomach churned. He held his breath and nodded.  
“I’ve been seeing someone,” Greg said, his face red and looking to the floor. Mycroft nodded slowly. “I mean,” Greg continued, “I didn’t remember you, see. I just felt lonely. So when I met her, I-I kept seeing her.”

_His lying, cheating wife_ , Mycroft thought as he closed his eyes. It was possible it wasn’t her, but in his heart he knew it was. “I see,” he said measuredly. Was he supposed to tell Greg how it was going to turn out for him?

“I’m sorry. I-I didn’t know, and I know I said I’d wait, but–”  
“Gregory, please do not think yourself at fault for any wrongdoings here.”  
Greg shut his mouth with a snap and nodded. “Thank you.”  
“You are going to keep seeing her?”  
“I… I can’t answer that. If I remember you, then of course not. If I don’t, and I don’t remember this conversation happening… then, well, probably. What I feel for her… without you, it feels like love. But when you’re here, it’s just something that tries to fill that huge gap that you leave behind.”

Hearing it didn’t make it easier, but Mycroft could understand.

~

Mycroft clutched Greg close in bed. He didn’t care if he was being clingy. Greg seemed to need to feel him just as much, as the man hadn’t settled down into sleep until Mycroft’s hands held him firmly.

Mycroft couldn’t sleep. He dozed gently, but was still completely aware of his surroundings as his mind ran in circles.

“Yeah, right. So, as I was going to say…”  
Mycroft snapped his attention to the doorway where Tempest stood, leaning against the frame like two days – years – earlier.  
“ _You!_ ” Mycroft snarled, and leapt from bed.

Tempest looked shocked, and Greg jumped awake.  
“What? Wassit?” Greg said, half-asleep and trying to get ready to defend himself.  
“What the fuck have you done?!” Mycroft shouted, and lunged for her.

Tempest disappeared from where she was, leaving Mycroft to grasp at thin air.  
“Geez, what the fuck? Chill mate!”  
Mycroft swished around on the spot, to see her standing by the bed where he’d gotten up. He rounded on her and stomped closer.  
“You do know I could literally just zap you somewhere else, right?” she said, defending herself. “There is nothing you can physically do to me. I’m a Spirit, remember, and you’re the one at my mercy.”

“Why can’t he remember me?!”  
“Myc, are you alright?”  
Mycroft looked at Greg’s concerned face. He threw his arms out into the direction where Tempest was, and Greg followed with his eyes.  
“There’s nothing there, love.”

“Make him see you!” Mycroft demanded.  
“No. You can’t make me do anything.” Tempest looked smug. It was infuriating Mycroft.  
“Tempest?” Greg asked.  
Mycroft nodded quickly before returning his attention to her. “What crazy, insane pleasure do you derive in causing this anguish? It’s horrid! How dare you!”  
“Myc, love, calm down. Remember? Getting angry isn’t going to–”  
“Why? _Why_? I… we… we were going to meet. Things could have changed for the better.” Mycroft lost the steam fuelling his rage as he spoke. He slumped by the end, and had to try and stop his voice from breaking.

Greg shuffled over on the bed to the foot were Mycroft was standing and rubbed his arm. Mycroft trembled. “We were going to be together,” he said, his voice small.  
“Mycroft… it’s not like this was a choice for me,” Tempest said, her voice oddly sympathetic. It was enough for Mycroft to look up at her.

“I want you to be happy. I want you to be with Greg.”  
Mycroft scoffed. “Yeah, looks like it.”  
“No, really,” she insisted. Her usually smug look was replaced with genuine concern. “I do. I think you are good together. But I can’t do what you’re asking.”  
“It’s not you, it’s your bosses, right? Don’t give me that bullshit,” Mycroft snapped, a flare of the fight returning to him. “The ‘I’m just following orders’ adage. You still have a choice. We all have a choice.”

“Yeah, but sometimes the consequences of the choice are bigger than you can understand,” Tempest countered, some of her snark returning. “I had thought that at least _you_ could appreciate that. You spend your life around humans that can’t hope to understand the things you do.”  
“Myc? What’s she saying?”

Mycroft looked to Greg, and then back to Tempest. “You’ve already done the damage, Tempest. You’ve made me meet and have a relationship with the man I was in love with all through his past. What possible consequence could come from you letting him remember?”

Tempest looked ready to shout an argument. She then looked at Greg’s hurt, pleading expression, and sighed. “I told you I can’t do anything that affects the timelines significantly. To let him remember would cause a destructive paradox. It could have caused massive damage to the fabric of reality. Him knowing you was fine as long as it caused no impact upon the circumstances that brought you to the bridge that night.”  
“So, what, your plan was for us to meet, fall in love, and then have him not remember while I watch? How on earth was that a plan to make me want to live?”

Gregory gripped his arm tightly. “Myc, please don’t say that,” he begged. Mycroft swallowed and looked apologetically to him.  
“I wanted to show you that you can have everything you’ve been wanting. That you can be happy, that you can find a reason to live. You just have to be who you were with him all this time.”

Mycroft shook his head incredulously. “Honestly? You intended this all to happen?”  
“Honestly, no,” she admitted. “It was only supposed to be a day at first. To show you that you can be important to Greg.”  
“So what happened?”  
“The day happened again,” she said, shrugging guiltily. “So I thought, hey, he can work out that it’s possible to love Greg and be loved back.”

Mycroft stared, waiting for more to be said. Greg was silent beside him, respecting the spirit’s space to talk.  
“Well?” he prompted.  
“Well I made a mistake. I’d made it a recurring thing until you lived out time until you were back to when you left.”  
“Why didn’t you stop it?”

Tempest huffed and started pacing. “It’s not that easy, you know. I can’t just undo it. I’d need to go and get a supervisor, and they’d have just undone it all. I can’t have that mistake on my record. I’m already in enough shit as it is, and I’d promised Stella–”  
“You screwed with my feelings, and Greg’s, for your _job_?” Mycroft’s annoyance returned. He seemed to be cycling through anger and defeat.  
“Not just that! If they’d undone it all, you’d both be removed from the system! Back to how it was but without anyone to meet you. I-I couldn’t let you just end it. Neither of you. I don’t know if Greg would have died, I didn’t check before and once I intervened the paperwork changed. But you would have.”

“Myc? Myc, is everything ok? You’re very still.”  
Mycroft bit his lip and processed it. He looked at Greg, and tried to make his head nod. He couldn’t do it. He swallowed slowly in order to say something, but he couldn’t do that either.

He returned his attention to Tempest. “So neither of us would remember this,” he surmised, “because it would never have happened.”  
“Yeah.”

Mycroft sat down on the bed. Greg held him. _I had the options of living this bliss only to have it taken away and know that Greg forgets me, but us both remember for this one day; or, none of this would have happened and I, and possibly Greg as well, jump._

“Are you alright? Myc, love, you’re a bit pale.”

_I had the time of my life with him already. If I knew this would happen, with the alternative of it just ending and the chance that Greg might end things… of course I would choose this. No pain I could experience from him forgetting could compare to him committing suicide. My entire life would change, and not for the better. Sherlock wouldn’t survive. Hell, I might have ended up there earlier._

“I’m sorry, Mycroft. This is just how it has to be.”  
Mycroft nodded to her. “I know,” he breathed. _I will always choose him, however that is._ “Thank you.”

Tempest cleared her throat awkwardly, and then disappeared. Mycroft turned his attention to Greg.  
“Oh, sweetheart, you look broken. What did she say?”  
“This is the way it has to be,” he repeated sadly. “The alternative just isn’t viable.”  
“She gave you a choice?”  
“No. She chose, and as hurt as I was… I do agree.”

“But…” Greg started, looking a bit desperate. “But I can’t remember you outside of these twenty-four hours at Christmas!”  
“At least we have those,” Mycroft said in the same defeated tone. “And you have all the other hours where you won’t remember the hurt of being alone.”

Mycroft held Greg tightly. “I would rather you have a life,” he whispered.  
“I want the life with you, not the one outside of Christmas day.”  
It broke Mycroft’s heart. “We’ll have today.”  
“For how long?”

Mycroft tucked Greg’s head into his neck, and rested his chin upon the silver hair. “Nine years.”  
“And after that?”  
“Then I’m back where I was.” Mycroft closed his eyes. “But it’s ok,” he said, his voice strained as he tried to sound positive. It came out more painful than ever. “You won’t remember. You won’t feel the pain of it ending.”

Greg remained silent against his chest as Mycroft whimpered to himself, thinking, _but I will._


	16. December 24, 2006 - Greg

Greg was putting out the Christmas decorations with Melissa. They’d been living together since January, and just this month she’d said she wanted to get married. Greg had been thinking that was where it was heading, but for some reason, he wasn’t ready to propose. He constantly felt this feeling of needing to wait… but for what, he didn’t know.

He’d agreed to marry her, and she’d taken that as proposal enough. Greg was happy, he guessed, and so bought her a ring two weeks ago.

“What’s this?”  
Greg put the lights down that he was untangling to look at what she had in her hands. It was a shoebox, and taped to the top was a note.  
“I’m not sure. I’ve had it forever, I think, but I can’t really remember much about it,” he said. He took the box and read the writing on top.

_Do not throw out before 9:13pm, December 24. You’ll know why.  
– Greg Lestrade._

“That’s oddly specific,” Melissa said, shrugging.  
“It’s my handwriting. And that’s my signature. But I can’t remember writing it.”  
“What’s in it?”

Greg opened the shoebox and was met with an assortment of items. His gut was clenching; these things meant something important to him, but he couldn’t remember what. He could just feel it deep inside.

“What a load of crap. Why are you keeping this shit?”  
“It’s not shit,” Greg protested. He let his hand wander over the feather, the tree made of sticks, the cinnamon… and then stopped at the pinecone. He picked it up out of the box and stared at it.

“It’s important to me.” He didn’t know why, but just knew they were. “Something about this means a lot.”  
“But you don’t know what?”  
“It’s like a memory, but I can’t remember it. I-I have to keep them.”  
“You’re a weird one, Greg Lestrade. Alright, keep your box of random junk.”

Greg tenderly put the pinecone back into the box. Some of the things looked old, but most of it was natural and didn’t really indicate just _how_ old. He wrapped his arms around the shoebox and hugged it.  
“I feel sad,” he said out of nowhere. “Happy, but sad.”  
“Again, weird one,” Melissa grunted, rolling her eyes. 

Greg sunk into himself. Melissa was always telling him to be a ‘real man’, and stop talking about his feelings. He put the box back up in his closet.

~

They had their dinner, and Greg was cleaning up. He was always a bit peeved that Melissa didn’t cook _or_ clean the dishes, but he let it go. She always said that she was happy to do them, but when she felt like it… and so if it bothered Greg to wait until she was ready, he could do them.

“I’m going to have a bath,” Melissa announced from the couch.  
“Enjoy,” Greg grumbled from the sink.  
“I will. I need a good long soak. Where are those candles?”  
“In the bathroom sink cupboard,” he responded automatically. He continued to finish the dishes.

He was just about finished drying and putting the plates away when he froze. His heart suddenly pounded and he was hit with a flood of memories. He shook, dropping the plate, which smashed on the kitchen floor.

“Here, let me help you with that, darling.”  
Greg swung around, shocked. He continued to tremble. “Myc,” he breathed. He felt like the air had been squeezed out of him.  
“No, stay where you are,” Mycroft said as Greg was about to move to him. “I’d rather not need to suture your feet.”  
“You can do that?”

Mycroft drifted to the fridge and pulled the little broom and shovel out from the ‘household’ tin. “Yes, I _can_ ,” he stressed, bending down and sweeping up the shards. “But legally I _shouldn’t_.”  
“Fuck, Myc, I-I’ve missed you.”  
“You haven’t remembered me.”  
“I’ve still missed you.”

Mycroft put the china in the bin and stood upright, smiling. He then pulled Greg into a big hug. “It’s good to see you, darling.”

Greg was lost for words. He was so emotional, tears flowed out of his eyes as he clung to Mycroft’s body for dear life. He dried to draw breath evenly, but it came in short bursts.  
“Oh, sweetheart,” Mycroft sung, rubbing his back.  
“I need you,” Greg whimpered. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”  
“For what?”

Greg didn’t know how to say it. His throat closed over. He just stood there in the kitchen, holding him.  
“You’re engaged.” It wasn’t a question.  
“You knew.” Also not a question. “Why didn’t you say anything last year?”  
“I guess I allowed myself to hope that I was wrong,” Mycroft answered. “Where is she?”  
“Having a bath.”

The music from the bathroom was loud, and so it was unlikely that Melissa could hear their conversation. She probably heard the plate smash, but it was just like her to not say anything and leave him to clean it up.

He was torn. He desperately wanted hold Myc, kiss him, and make love to him all night… but he was engaged to a woman now. To do anything would be cheating. But, really, he was still in a relationship with Mycroft that started _years_ ago, so did that mean it was Melissa with whom he was cheating on Myc? _Does that mean I can kiss him? Fuck I’m so confused._

“You are a good man.”  
Greg stepped out of the hug and looked into Mycroft’s eyes. “You could tell what I was thinking.”  
Mycroft hummed and nodded. “And the fact that it is so clearly a difficult conundrum for you is indicative of how honourable and virtuous you are.”  
“Doesn’t make it easy, though. If I was an arsehole I’d sure be just enjoying myself right now.”

Mycroft chuckled. “You are the most amazing and wonderful man I have ever known. The pain and struggle is a part of what makes you that.” He then ran his fingers through Greg’s hair, and the touch was so soothing Greg closed his eyes.  
“I don’t know what to do,” he whispered, nuzzling Mycroft’s cheek. “She’ll be done soon, and so I have to make a decision.”

Mycroft’s body went tense under his hands. “You should not make a decision now that would impact your entire life, over something you won’t remember.”  
Greg frowned. He knew Mycroft was trying to just be logical, but it still was slightly painful to hear that the man was willing to give him up. It was then he realised that in his heart, he was never going to give _Mycroft_ up.

“I’m not going to stop loving you. I’m not going to stop showing it, either.” Greg looked determinedly into Mycroft’s eyes. “No matter what self-sacrificial bullshit you say.”  
“But–”  
“I won’t cheat, no,” Greg said with a sigh. “She’s honestly not that good for me, or even to me, compared to you. But that won’t make me change who I am.”

He rested his head on Mycroft’s chest. “It’s all so complicated.”  
“Yes,” Mycroft uttered. He sounded hesitant.  
“There’s something else you want to say.”  
“Yes.”  
“But?”  
“I don’t know if it’s my place.”  
“Please, Myc. We don’t keep anything from each other.”

“Let’s sit down.” Mycroft took his hand and pulled him gently towards the couch. “You’re not going to remember this after today, and you can’t do anything because of what I say.”  
“Alright,” he said, a bit worried.  
“Your wife cheats on you.”

Greg’s stomach flipped. “W-what? When?”  
Mycroft looked pained, and turned his face away. “I’m not entirely sure when it starts. It’s not information I allowed myself to dig for.”  
“So it happens more than once?”

Mycroft didn’t respond. Greg grabbed his hands. “Myc, tell me.”  
“Yes,” he responded, his voice small. “For a long time, with multiple partners. You do ‘catch her out’, as it were, at least once and attempt to come to a resolution. It does not work.”  
“Fuck,” he exhaled. “Why?”  
“That I can’t say. I cannot conceive of anyone so idiotic as to have the immense good fortune to be with you and not give themselves entirely to you.”

Greg smiled sadly and leant forward against Mycroft again. “Flatterer,” he chuckled.  
“I speak only the truth.”  
“It’s not going to make me cheat on her. Or… well, kind of cheat on her. I don’t really know where the rules are in this situation.”  
“I didn’t tell you to try convince you otherwise.” 

An idea fluttered into Greg’s mind. He instantly rejected it, but once his mind had thought of it, he couldn’t get it out of his head. His stomach was uneasy, but he felt like he had to at least say it. He cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck.  
“Um, this is ridiculous, and it was just a thought, but, er… well, I mean, t-there is a way to, um, be with you and have it _not_ be cheating… if, uh, you, um–”  
“No,” Mycroft said, his spine straightening.  
“That’s fine,” Greg said quickly. “Totally ok. I thought I’d just say it, in case you were thinking it.”  
“I will never be thinking it.”

There was an awkward silence that fell between them, and neither looked at the other. Greg glanced in Mycroft’s direction. “Are you opposed to the, er, number of participants, or that she’s a she?”  
“In principle I have no issue with what consenting adults do with each other. You are correct in saying that the idea of being intimate with a woman is unsettling to say the least. But, I fear the biggest issue with your suggestion reveals a rather negative side of myself.”

Greg frowned and cocked his head. “I don’t understand? I mean not wanting to have sex with a woman is fine and reason enough.” Greg’s eyes then widened. “Oh. It’s _her_ , isn’t it? You don’t like her.”  
“I despise the woman for what she did to you,” Mycroft sneered, all but baring his teeth. “But that’s not what I meant.” Mycroft sighed. “I am an extremely jealous and possessive man, and cannot consider a situation in which I must share you.”

Greg didn’t move for a beat, and then burst out laughing. “That’s your horrible reasoning?”  
“Yes?”  
“Myc, that’s fine. I’m actually a bit flattered that you love me so much you can’t share.” Greg looked a little sheepish as he grinned at his partner. “I rather like belonging to you exclusively.”  
“You do?”  
“Yeah. I can see you in my mind; a dragon protecting its hoard against everyone wanting to take it. Makes me feel like treasure.”  
“You _are_ my treasure.”

It was physically painful not to grab Mycroft and snog the life out of him. He had to bite his lip to restrain himself. Mycroft sensed his internal turmoil, and pulled him into a comforting hug. It was exactly what he needed.

Greg jolted as Mycroft suddenly jumped up. “What, what is it?” he asked, his adrenaline kicking in.  
“You don’t remember today for the rest of the year.”  
“Yes, we know that Myc.”  
“Exactly. Today is like… a completely separate existence from all other days of the year. Today, for twenty-four hours, you are in _my_ timeline.”  
“Essentially,” Greg said, hesitant. “Where are you going with this?”

“Tempest,” Mycroft stated, as if it were the answer. Greg had to just shake his head. “Tempest,” he repeated. Greg looked about the empty room.  
“Is she here?”  
“No no no, Tempest is the solution. Don’t you see?”

Greg hummed in concern. Mycroft was looking rather manic. “Myc? You alright?”  
“Yes yes yes, of course,” he muttered quickly. It didn’t assuage Greg’s concern.  
“Sweetheart, why don’t you come sit back down here, eh?”  
“Tempest!” Mycroft shouted, ignoring him.  
“Shh! She’ll hear you!”

Mycroft laughed, the same manic laugh that spoke of mental instability. His heart started pounding in his chest. _He’s lost it. Oh god, he’s cracked under the stress of it all._  
“It’d doesn’t matter!” Mycroft cried gleefully.  
“Um, yeah, it kinda does.”  
“Tempest!”

“Greg? Why are you shouting? I’m in the bath!” Melissa shouted.  
Greg started to pant, looking between Mycroft and the hall to the bathroom. “It’s fine! Everything’s fine!”  
“Well shut it then, I’m trying to relax!” 

Greg winced. How could he not see that she was actually rather terrible?

“Great! You’re here.”

He turned to look at Mycroft speaking to thin air. If he didn’t know differently, he’d be more concerned about Mycroft’s wellbeing. _Fuck maybe I should be concerned about my own mental health. When did I start thinking it normal for a man to be sent back in time by a spirit that only he can see to spend Christmas with me?_

“Oh shush, I don’t need your attitude right now. I have it. I have the solution. Because you need to do it!”  
“Mycroft, lower your volume,” Greg hissed. Mycroft turned to him briefly and nodded.  
“You said that you can’t let anything alter the timeline by whatever measurement you decided… yes, that, whatever. So you erased Greg’s memory for the year… I know! I have to explain… ah, sorry. Melissa, Greg’s girlfriend.”  
“Fiancée,” Greg corrected automatically. He shook his head. _Why did I do that? Damn she has me trained well._

“Really? Ha! I knew it.”  
“Myc? What’s going on?”  
Mycroft turned to him, a gleeful look on his face. “You’re with her because you can’t remember me on this day. So Tempest is going to make her forget _you_ today.”  
Greg took a step backwards. “What?”

“It’s simple. You’ll be joining me in my timeline for one day, essentially. She’ll forget you, and not notice the missing memories. Yes, I’m getting to that part,” Mycroft mumbled towards his shoulder. “She will have just vague ideas in her mind to suggest that there are memories there but, like you, she won’t question it.”  
“Wait. That’s not really solving the ‘cheating’ issue, here.”

Mycroft stopped and his smile fell. Greg stepped closer and took his hands. “I’ll still know that I’m with her, and that I shouldn’t cheat.”  
“But you… she gets you all the other days of the year, Greg,” Mycroft pleaded. “She won’t know.”  
“But that doesn’t make it right,” Greg stressed. “When she cheats on me in the future, Mycroft, does it make it right for her to do it just because I don’t know about it?”  
Mycroft looked sullen. “No.”

“It’s a good idea, since it essentially does mean that I’m living the old life I had with you for a day of heaven. And god do I want it. But I’ll still be doing something wrong.” Greg hoped the anguish was coming through in his voice. It was agony to say.

Mycroft looked to his side. He then returned his attention to Greg. “You won’t remember that either,” he suggested. “When I’m gone, you won’t remember me at all, including anything you’ve done that would make you guilty in the year.”

Greg had to look at the floor to process it. _Does not remembering it really not make it count? I won’t know, nor will she. But I’ll still be making this choice to be with Mycroft instead for one day. And again, it’s a relationship I’ve had for years and years already. I’ve only gotten together with Melissa because I couldn’t remember Mycroft. So back to the question, does it mean that I actually am cheating already, in the year, on Mycroft? Or does that not count because I can’t remember any better? If that’s the case, then how is that different to being with him for Christmas if I can’t remember any better either?_

“Greg?” Greg looked up to see Mycroft still standing there, unmoving, looking on the verge of tears. “Please say yes,” Mycroft pleaded.  
“I-I…”  
“You promised to marry me,” Mycroft whispered. “I’m not going to get that anymore. Please. Please let me have this day.”

Greg looked back towards the bathroom. “What would become of her, then? I can’t just have her suddenly be somewhere she doesn’t recognise, living with someone she can’t remember.”

Mycroft looked to respond, but stopped and turned to where the spirit supposedly was. His eyebrows flew up and he nodded. Greg turned his head, asking for an explanation.

“Tempest’s solution takes care of that.”  
“How? More information, Myc. I’m already not sure if I can do this.”  
“She won’t exist.”

Greg had to stop and frown. “What?”  
“Yes, I’m getting there,” Mycroft growled to his right. He then took a deep breath and smiled at Greg. “Tempest can affect time. Just as I am only here for twenty-four hours, she will _not_ be. Tempest can put her in a different time stream that omits Christmas.”  
“So… she won’t remember skipping a day, I won’t remember her skipping a day afterwards, and I won’t remember having spent that day with you.”  
“Yes,” Mycroft said slowly.  
“That’s… insane,” Greg said, unable to find a better adjective.  
“It will mean that you won’t be cheating on her… she won’t exist when you are with me.”  
“It’s a bit… er… dastardly, isn’t it?”  
“Oh I don’t disagree, Tempest is a careless manipulative – ow! Hey!” Mycroft then rubbed his arm. “Point is, this whole situation is, as she says, ‘fucked up’… so a little more isn’t going to hurt. It will, however, make my remaining time worthwhile. But only if you want it. I’m not going to pressure you either way.”

Greg winced and nodded. _Go for it, Greg. You desperately want this, and it’s the only way it’s going to happen. Of all the ways, this is the best. I can’t exactly go for the smug bastard who kidnaps me and have it be this alright, no matter how much I’ve daydreamt of those meetings going differently…_

“Yeah. Alright. I must be insane – or possibly a bastard – to agree to this, but let’s, uh…” He cleared his throat. “Let’s do it.”  
Mycroft beamed, and the brightness of his smile melted Greg’s heart. That alone helped him feel like he’d made the right call. Mycroft then snapped his attention back to his right side.  
“What do you mean, ‘from this moment’? Why not when I arrive? Oh fine, fine!”  
“Myc?”  
“Tempest is going to make your… Melissa… skip twenty four hours from right now, not when I arrive, because of issues with paradoxes from this conversation.”

Greg nodded, agreeing, albeit having no clue what Mycroft was talking about.

~

He lay with Mycroft on his chest, softly tracing his fingers up and down the man’s slender arm. His mind was at war with his heart. What he’d just done – spent a long time doing, at that – was something he _should_ be ashamed about. He _should_ be guilty for cheating.

And yet… he wasn’t. Knowing that Melissa was going to cheat on him repeatedly in the future didn’t make it right, but it certainly made it easier not to be torn up about. His reasoning that technically he was in a relationship with Mycroft first also helped. And despite his brain telling himself that he was a better person than this, that he always swore he’d never cheat on someone… his heart was just happy to have Mycroft in his arms again.

Nothing in his life felt as right as being with Mycroft. He was scolding himself for not having the courage to do anything about the Mycroft from his time when he’d met him, before getting too involved with Melissa.

_Just let it go. It’s done now, and it makes me happy. I shouldn’t spend my time in conflict with myself, when soon he’ll be gone and I won’t even remember this._

“Are you alright?” Mycroft’s soft voice spoke from above him.  
“Just thinking.”  
“I know. But are you alright?”  
Greg took a deep breath. “I think I am. I think I’m troubled by the fact that I’m not bothered as much as I expect myself to be.”  
“You hold yourself to high standards. You always have. It’s not unexpected that your virtuous self would take issue with things, and not be swayed by the circumstance.”  
“Yeah,” he agreed. He was glad that Mycroft understood.

“Give it time,” Mycroft uttered.  
“I won’t have much of it, really. I won’t remember this to reflect on.”  
“True.”

Mycroft shifted upon him, and looked into his eyes. “You’re not a bad man, Gregory Lestrade,” he said firmly, and pressed a kiss onto his lips. “You’re a good one in a situation no one could have ethical rules for.”  
Greg nodded. “I feel I’m meant to be with you.”  
“If I may be so bold: you are.”

Greg hugged him close. The warmth radiated out from Mycroft’s body and filled his chest. _Of all that could have happened, I’m glad I still get this._  
  
“You were smart to write the note to yourself on your shoebox,” Mycroft mumbled into Greg’s shoulder.  
“Yeah. The mulled wine spices we put in the little canvas drawstring bag we added for this year’s decoration will make it smell amazing by next year.”  
“She won’t notice the bag has gone missing?”  
“Probably will, but it’ll just be one of those mysteries in life. Like where all the whole spices went.” Greg chuckled and nuzzled Mycroft’s cheek. “It’ll be fine.”

“I’d better get up and dressed,” Mycroft moaned. “I don’t want a repeat of ’02.”  
Greg burst out laughing. “No, lord no. As hilarious as it is to look back on, I was stressed out of my mind.”  
“I love you,” Mycroft uttered. “Thank you for letting me continue to share that with you.”  
“I love you too Myc. This goes to show just how much we mean it when we say nothing will tear us apart.”

A shadow of anguish flashed across Mycroft’s face, but it was quickly replaced with a warm smile. Greg wanted to ask, but he decided to leave it. Mycroft kissed him again, and then stood and began to dress himself.

“At least with my disappearance happening some twenty minutes before _she_ arrives again, you will have enough time to arrange things to make the transition easier on yourself.”  
Greg had to laugh at the way Mycroft had sneered ‘she’. “Yeah, that’s convenient. Not sure exactly what I could do about it, but I guess something’s better than nothing.”


	17. December 24, 2007 - Mycroft

Mycroft remained leaning against the doorway to the bedroom where he’d bid Gregory goodbye, ‘until next year’. Suddenly the room around him changed, and he was facing the bed and a deeply unsettling sight.

He blanched and then blushed bright red. He scurried to get as far away from the vision burned into his retina – and the high-pitched screaming moans that went with it. He rushed out of the door and let it shut behind him.

Mycroft panted, heart pounding, as he sat himself on the stairs by the door. Images of Gregory thrusting, of long hairless legs in the air either side of him, continued to race before his eyes. His heart constricted painfully and tears welled in his eyes.

_I knew this was going to happen, I know he’s with her, why does it still hurt to be confronted by it? He loves me, he just doesn’t remember me._

He sat there on the stairs thinking how it’d probably be worse for Gregory. The man was just there, lost in physical pleasure, and would have his world turned upside down as he remembered the truth about the past fifteen years in the middle of it.

He sighed heavily, the sound echoing into the silent stairwell. There was a window, and he could see out into the night sky. The stars, what little there were to see in the skies of London, were out.

_It’s been nice to have a few white Christmases again._

A thudding noise drew his attention to the door. He turned to look at it, and remained listening. There were muffled voices, but Mycroft couldn’t tell what they were saying. It was probably an argument, wherein Greg’s wife was displeased with his sudden change in enthusiasm. At least, that’s what Mycroft liked to think.

Should he knock? Was Greg looking for him? He didn’t want to impose, but he didn’t want to leave Greg looking for him. He sighed again and looked at his knees.

“Get your arse back in there. I didn’t work hard to make this happily ever after nonsense work with your boyfriend so you could sulk in a stairwell.”

Mycroft closed his eyes. “Hello, Tempest.”  
“I’m not joking.”  
“Yes, I gathered.”  
“Why is your butt still on the floor, then?”

He sighed. “Is this the right thing to do?”  
“Oh for fuck’s sake, don’t be giving me this shit now that I’ve already done it. You love him, he loves you, yahda yahda… is there really anything else to say?”  
“It’s complicated now.”  
“Yeah. It is. But hate to break it to you, Sunshine, but life is complicated for a lot of people.”  
“Given I’m sitting talking to a spirit in the past, I think it’s fair to say mine is excessively so.”

Tempest suddenly appeared in front of him, instead of behind him. She smirked. “Yeah, I’ll give you that. Quit wasting your time. Go get the boy.”  
“He–”  
“Is in there panicking because he can’t find you, yes.”  
“He is?”  
“Duh.”

Tempest then knelt in front of him and placed her hand on his knee. Mycroft looked up at her, confused by the sudden supportive gesture.  
“He needs you, Mycroft. Listen to how stressed he is that he can’t find you,” she said softly.

Mycroft screwed up his face. “I can’t hear anything,” he admitted. He looked at Tempest.  
“Well, he is,” she assured him. “Go. Help him. That’s your purpose now, remember?”

He took a deep breath and nodded. She was right. Avoiding making it awkward for himself wasn’t what was important. He’d do whatever he could to help Gregory be ok and happy. It was all about him now.

Mycroft stood and knocked on the door. It was opened not a moment later, Greg’s stressed and anxious face meeting his. The worry instantly eased from his features as relief washed over him. Gregory stepped forward and embraced him in a tight hug.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” Greg whimpered into Mycroft’s ear.  
“I will always come for you.” Mycroft held him tightly. “I’m yours, remember?”  
“Yes,” Greg breathed. “I do now.”

“Greg, who’s that?” Melissa’s voice came from inside the room.  
“It’s Mycroft,” Greg said bluntly. He released him from the hug and ushered him inside. “A… friend of mine.”  
Melissa screwed her face into a suspicious sneer. “You’ve never mentioned him before.”  
“I’m sure I have. Suits, umbrella, kidnaps me on occasion, has the junkie kid brother?”

Melissa’s eyes widened. “Oh,” she said, uncertain. “ _Him._ I hadn’t realised you knew him closely. What are you doing here, Mycroft, at this time on Christmas eve?”  
“Uh,” Mycroft vocalised, feeling on the spot. “Important things to discuss with Gregory.”  
“He’s not on duty.”  
“Extremely important things,” Mycroft added. He stood stoically looking between the two of them.

Greg looked like he was desperately trying to keep a straight face. His mouth quirked occasionally, threatening to break into a grin, but he forced it down each time. Mycroft looked at him, silently pleading for help.

“I’m sorry, Melissa. This won’t take long. Why don’t you hop back in bed and I’ll be with Myc in the lounge while we work out this problem.”  
“Problem?” Mycroft asked reflexively. _Does Gregory see my presence as a problem?  
_ “Yeah,” Greg responded. “Something hard, I’d imagine.”

Mycroft knew his pale complexion gave away his slight blush. He cleared his throat. “Er, yes. Indeed. Things like that do come up at this time.”  
Greg’s sly, glittering eyes was all the reinforcement he needed to continue his foray into flirting. He shot the man a knowing look. “Gregory is the only man with whom I can work it out.”  
“Again… it’s Christmas,” Melissa protested.  
“No, no, it’s fine. It’s always a pleasure,” Greg said suggestively.

The fact that Mycroft could feel the sexual tension in the room left him to believe that Melissa was definitely aware of it. She looked more annoyed that her evening was interrupted than anything, though.

“Did you know he was coming?” she snapped at Greg. “Is that what that was, that got you out of bed?”  
“Not until that moment,” Greg answered honestly. “Seriously, you won’t even know we’re here.” Greg looked at Melissa, who huffed and stormed off to the bedroom.

Mycroft remained standing a few steps from Gregory, just in case. They both stood there, just waiting.  
“How long until…?”  
“I don’t know the exact time, Myc.”  
“But surely you noticed what time she returned?”  
“Oh, yeah. Nine-thirty.”

Mycroft looked at the microwave. Another minute. He could not _wait_ until the charger for his phone was invented. He was sick of not having access to even the time.

“Are you still ok?”  
“Strangely, yeah. I am. I mean I’m married to her now, and it’s a little different I guess, but yeah. The dread I felt when it looked like you weren’t coming… I started regretting getting married at all, thinking maybe that’s what caused it.”

Mycroft just nodded in response. He wanted to say that was ‘good’, or that he was ‘glad’, but he didn’t want to sound insensitive.

“Seriously, Myc. This really is an alternate reality for me. Something totally different to all the other days of my life. Hell, it’s an entirely different life of mine. A life with you. I’m not guilty or ashamed of it. Not anymore.”

Greg stepped closer and held his hand. Mycroft eyed the clock, reading nine thirty, and smiled. “A life with you is all I want,” he muttered.  
“We’re lucky that we get it,” Greg responded, eying Mycroft’s lips. “I mean it’s sad that the life I wish I had is the one that is so fleeting… but at least I have it.”  
“You have me.” Mycroft inched closer, his nose millimetres from Greg’s. He stared at those lips as Greg’s tongue flickered tantalisingly over them. “So take me.”

~

“We haven’t gotten a decoration this year,” Mycroft mumbled from his cocoon of warmth.  
“Hmm,” Greg hummed, the vibrations rumbling in his chest as Mycroft’s ear was pressed to it. “We could always just get it tomorrow.”  
“But we’ve always gotten it before midnight.”  
“Do you really want to get out of bed?”

Mycroft hummed as he thought. No, he honestly didn’t. But his gut told him to keep up the tradition and get a decoration for this year. Last year he’d been lucky to make something out of Gregory’s spices. He couldn’t do that again.  
“Is there anything in the house we could use?”  
“You’re the creative one,” Greg huffed while he buried himself into the blankets more. “I’m sure you’ll find something.”

Mycroft lay there in silence for a moment. “I don’t want to pick anything that your wife chose,” he said carefully, hoping not to cause distress or offence.  
“Right.” Greg yawned. “Could always be little delinquents and nick some holly off Mrs Anders’ wreath.”  
“Gregory!”

Greg shrugged and chuckled, cuddling him tighter. “It’d mean we’d not have to leave the building.”  
“That is alluring, yes. But theft?”  
“It’s one leaf, Myc. She’ll only notice if we take the whole thing.”  
“You really were a little rascal as a kid, weren’t you?”

Greg laughed. It was just a freeing and joyful sound. “Yeah,” he chuckled. “Put all that behind me when I joined the force, though.”  
“And here you are, encouraging crime. Naughty, naughty, officer.” Mycroft playfully shook his head. “Tsk tsk.”

Mycroft was met with a passionate kiss. “Go get the leaf, and I’ll show you how _naughty_ I can be.”  
“Well, I’d be the one breaking the law,” Mycroft protested. “You’d have to arrest me if you caught me.” He looked suggestively at Greg. He was both amazed and elated that he could freely say things like that.  
“Mmm,” Greg hummed. “Now that is tempting. I might even get up after you and go on patrol, in case I see any crimes being committed.”

_Is he suggesting a more in-depth roleplay? Is he actually going to arrest me in the hall? Why am I so excited by the thought of that? Uniform, cuffs, some manhandling…_

“Wrong sort of getting up, Myc,” Greg laughed.  
“Put your old uniform on.”  
“Is that an order from a criminal?”  
“No, I haven’t done anything yet. But you’re gonna want to make sure I know authority when I see it, should I break the law.”  
“Go on, get.” Greg shoved him playfully. “Do it naked and I’ll have two charges against you. That’ll take _two_ punishments, you know.”

“N-naked?” Mycroft’s heart started to hammer. Greg stared at him, playful and challenging. He knew that Gregory wouldn’t force him or pressure him into doing something he didn’t want to do… but it was oddly thrilling to think of actually doing it. He’d never done anything like that as a teenager, and hadn’t seen the appeal of it. Yet no one knew him here, and he had the man of his dreams there with him whatever happened.

_Mycroft, you’re over forty, not fourteen! Don’t be childish,_ his brain scolded. But the adrenaline coursing through his body wanted him to take a chance; let go.

“You don’t have to, you know that, ri–”  
“Yes. Of course. I’ll leave it up to you to find out, then, shall I? I’ll see you in your uniform, then. Just… don’t lock us out.”

Greg burst out laughing and pressed another kiss to Mycroft’s head. “It’ll be a bit _tight_ , but I don’t think you’ll mind,” he hummed into Mycroft’s ear.  
“No,” he said while swallowing.

Mycroft got up and picked up his clothes from the floor, eyed Greg, and then left the bedroom for him to change.

~

“I’m not going to be able to look at holly the same again,” Greg laughed as they finished lunch.  
“You could have at least put it in your pocket before pinning me to the wall,” Mycroft protested, rubbing his stomach where the holly leaf had grazed.  
“Nope. Can’t interfere with standard procedure. You could have pulled a knife while I was doing that.”  
“From _where_?” Mycroft stressed. He grinned.  
“At least Mrs Anders didn’t come out to see what the noise was.”  
“Indeed,” Mycroft said, sipping his coffee. “I would have enjoyed to see you try and explain your way out of that one.”  
“What, rutting up against your bare backside as I pinned you to the wall and cuffed you?” Greg shrugged. “You were very clearly enjoying it. I doubt she would have thought you were a real criminal.”  
“That wasn’t exactly my concern.”

~

“Would you like to dance?”  
“I-I don’t know exactly, er…” Mycroft shuffled his feet. “I haven’t really danced with anyone before.”  
Greg smiled at him, pressed play on the DVD player, and held out his hand. “It’s not complicated. Just sway with me.”

Mycroft took Greg’s hand as the music, Frank Sinatra’s ‘ _Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’_ , began to play. Greg slid his other arm around Mycroft’s waist, and leant his head against his shoulder.

Greg chuckled. “We definitely do,” he uttered. “Make the yuletide gay, that is.”  
Mycroft didn’t respond, but let his eyes close as the song continued. The intimate swaying was much more enjoyable than he’d thought. It was like his body was sharing the space with Greg’s, singing together.

“This is nice,” he whispered.  
“Yeah?”  
“Yeah. Thank you for sharing with me.”  
“Always.” Greg let go of Mycroft’s hand and put it on his shoulder. “This isn’t even the best part.”  
“Oh?”

Greg smiled warmly, and nuzzled Mycroft’s neck. He trailed his nose up until their foreheads met, breath hot and loud between them, and kissed him.


	18. December 24, 2008 - Greg

“Melissa, please, it’s Christmas.”  
“Stop saying that!”

Melissa had been picking at every little thing Greg had been doing for a week. He was tired of it, but he still wanted to spend the holiday with his wife. She, however, had other plans.

“But I can’t guarantee I’ll have Christmas day off next year.”  
“Why not work both, Greg? You worked Christmas eve, so why not just go all the way and do both?”

Greg sighed. He knew she was right to be angry. Still, leaving _now_ for her workmate’s house was painful.  
“I’m sorry, but it was unavoidable.”  
“I told my friend no, I’m spending the night with my husband. I can’t go to your party. No, I can’t go to your dinner, I’m spending time with Greg. And what do you do? Disappear on me!”  
“I didn’t disappear, Mels; I told you I was working today last week.”  
“And I told _you_ to get out of it!”  
“That doesn’t mean that I could!”  
“You’re always working. You don’t care about me, or spending time with me. All that you care about is your work. Was that posh bloke there?”  
“No that’s… what, Mycroft?”  
“Yes,” she hissed. “Him. The man you have a crush on.”

Greg sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He did honestly have a crush on Mycroft Holmes, but he’d committed to Melissa and wouldn’t do anything… why couldn’t she understand that?  
“He’s Sherlock’s older brother, Melissa. He’s just looking out for his little brother. And no, he wasn’t. There’s nothing going on between us.”

She squinted her eyes at him. “You wish there was, though. I can tell.”  
“I don’t understand, Melissa. I am still here to spend Christmas eve with you. I’m going to be here all Christmas day to spend with you. Why are you angry?”  
“Because I’m not a priority to you!”  
“You are, Melissa, honest.”

Melissa huffed and stormed towards the door. “I need to be the _most_ important thing, Greg. Not just a bonus.” She then walked out, bag trailing behind her. “I’ll be back on boxing day before we go to your mother’s.”

She didn’t give Greg a chance to say anything; she slammed the door shut.  
“Fuck,” he grumbled as he hung his head. _Why is she so volatile? She’s always snapping at me and running off to her friends’ places. I’m trying my best._

Greg pulled a beer out of the fridge. He wasn’t going to let himself cry, even if the tears threatened to spill. He felt justified in thinking he wasn’t at fault; that it was his wife overreacting. Still, he didn’t like the idea of spending Christmas alone because of it. _I might as well have offered for the whole Christmas shift._

Just as he was about to take a swig, he froze. The air was pulled out of his lungs. He turned around, and the tears did fall.  
“Myc,” he breathed, and ran into the man’s embrace.  
“Gregory. Oh, darling, what is it?”

Greg sniffled and shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. You’re here.”  
“Where is…?”  
“Gone to some party at her friend’s place. Though, now that I remember you and what you’ve said, I think there’s only one other person at the party.”  
“I’m sorry.”  
“No. It’s alright. Joke’s on her, since she’s not going to make it there anyway.”

~

“Christmas pudding?”  
“I, er, Gregory, you remember–”  
“Mycroft Holmes, you are not fat. Even if you were, then you still deserve to have pudding at Christmas like everyone else. I don’t care about your weight. The parts I love about you have nothing to do with your size.”

Greg smiled smugly as Mycroft blushed and looked down at the table. He put his hand over Mycroft’s. “It’s ok, dear. Really. I know you’re sick of the traditional Christmas food, but I didn’t remember you were coming at the time when organising dinner. At least you haven’t had figgy pudding in ages so that’ll be special.”  
“Plum pudding, you mean.”  
“No, figgy pudding. Like the song.”  
“Christmas puddings aren’t really ‘figgy puddings’,” Mycroft protested.  
“Mine is,” Greg said, puffing his chest proudly. “I put a heap of figs in it.”

Mycroft chuckled. Greg loved how that made Mycroft’s eyes perk up a bit, interested. He pressed a kiss to the man’s head as he stood and got up to get two bowls.  
“No custard, if you please,” Mycroft said.  
“Yeah, alright.” Greg could make that concession. Not everyone liked custard, and so Greg could excuse the reluctance to eat it for its calories.

He served up two bowls and placed one in front of Mycroft. “Be careful when you eat. I made it pretty traditionally, and there’s old timey coins in there.”  
“Coins?”  
“Yeah. Silver ones. There’s five threepences and a sixpence. Chew carefully, love.” Greg grinned and spooned a mouthful of pudding into his mouth.

Mycroft hesitated a moment, and then started eating. Greg couldn’t wait, and used his spoon to stab at his slice to find any coins.  
“Cheating, Gregory.”  
“I didn’t get any,” he huffed, drooping and pouting.  
“Is there a prize for getting a coin?”  
“No. I thought it was supposed to be just good luck, or something? Though now that you mention it, I remember mum used to give prizes for the coins – whoever got the sixpence got to pick what they wanted.”

Mycroft then opened his mouth and pulled out a coin. “Shame, I would have won one.”  
“Oh, man, you got the sixpence!”  
“Anything I wanted, you say?” Mycroft said slyly.  
Greg chuckled and flushed red, nodding. “Anything.”

“Well, how about we use this as our decoration?”  
“Oh, I was thinking something a bit more… no, yes, that’s good.”  
“That wasn’t my prize, Gregory; it was a suggestion of what to do with the coin before I claim it.”

Greg laughed. “It’ll be a bit hard to hang. Hold on, I have a clip around here somewhere.” He stood and rummaged around the ‘fruit’ bowl; it rarely held fruit, and instead was a mix of random items. He pulled out a small bulldog clip, opened the drawer for kitchen twine, and tied a long string to the clip. “There.”  
“Definitely ingenious. Now, finish your pudding.”  
“Yes, sir,” Greg teased. “You sure you don’t want custard? It’s ok, you know, to have a little bit now and again.”  
“Definitely. I don’t like the flavour. It’s not avoiding the fat content. The pudding is so calorie dense that it’d hardly matter.”  
“Oh. Good.” Greg smiled and put the custard in the fridge before sitting down. “Oh, I have some whipped cream instead if you prefer?”

Mycroft looked affronted. “Whipped cream, on pudding?”  
“Does that not go together?”  
“No, Gregory, it definitely does not. Bring it here.”  
“Wait, I’m confused.” Greg still pulled the can out of the fridge anyway. “You said–”  
“Not for the pudding, love. For my prize.”

Greg swallowed and complied. He couldn’t deny finishing his pudding off as quickly as possible.

~

They decided to spend the morning shopping. Greg hadn’t bought any gifts for Mycroft, and even though Myc had insisted it was fine, Greg wanted to. Since Mycroft wasn’t telling him what he wanted, Greg was dragging him to all stores and asking him over and over until the man relented. Somehow, Mycroft had the patience of a saint.

“How about these? Or these? A pen? Some paper?”  
“I have no need of those, darling.”  
“This notebook?”  
“I cannot bring anything with me into the next Christmas, Gregory.”

Greg nodded. He did keep forgetting. He pulled Mycroft, who was clearly very uninterested in shopping, into another store. _Is it being sadistic that I rather enjoy watching him complain? It’s like, being a married couple and forcing my spouse out. That’s the part I’m enjoying. Not that he’s not having a good time. But I’ve seen those glances… I think he’s having fun pretending not to be interested._

“A bag of cookies?”  
“No.”  
“A bag of toffees?”  
“No.”  
“A bag of humbugs?”  
“No.”  
“A bag of–”  
“Gregory, let me stop you there before you list all the items on the shelves. I don’t want a bag of anything. I ate my limit of sweet things last night.”

Greg had to snigger to himself, if only to avoid getting aroused standing in the store. It had been a _very_ exciting evening. “Alright,” he giggled. “Point taken. No sweets. Pretzels, then?”  
“ _Gregory_ ,” Mycroft moaned, but it was obvious he was enjoying it.  
Greg laughed and grabbed around his arm, leaning his head on Mycroft’s shoulder. “Next store?”

He didn’t bother waiting for Mycroft’s answer. He dragged him along to the next shop along the street that seemed interesting, that was open. Not many stores were, but he was glad that there were enough open on Christmas day to have a variety of options.

Greg was enjoying being able to be so cuddly and affectionate in public. He had been careful to go out to the busier shopping districts, to reduce the chance of being recognised by anyone knowing he was married to a woman.

The downside, however, was that Mycroft was seriously uncomfortable around so many people and Greg could see his anxiety levels increase dramatically. It was why he was doing his best to be playfully annoying; it was providing enough distraction for Mycroft to pay attention to only him, and not the crowds of people around them.

“Oh! Menswear. Let’s go pants shopping.”  
Mycroft twitched. “Um,” he choked out, but Greg pulled his hand before he managed to protest.  
“Everyone wears underwear, Myc. Or at least they should. No one’s going to care that you’re looking at them to buy. Really, it’s not awkward.”  
“I suppose there are worse things,” Mycroft huffed.  
Greg laughed. “Yeah. Bra shopping.”

Mycroft screwed his face. “I had been thinking of trying to tell certain parliament members to keep their affairs more private, but no, yours is definitely worse.”  
Greg found himself laughing once again, bending over. “Seriously?”  
Mycroft nodded slowly, a distant look on his face. “You don’t want to know some things, Gregory, about the public faces you encounter.”  
“No, you’re probably right,” Greg agreed, still genial. “No matter. So. Pants?”

Mycroft looked about, as if to make sure no one could overhear. “I, er, actually could use another pair, yes.”  
“Brilliant. You pick.”  
“I believe it is customary for the gift giver to select the gift.”  
“Nope, uhuh.” Greg shook his head. “You’re not getting out of it that easily, or you’re getting some pink lacy ones. Actually…”  
“Gregory,” Mycroft scolded. He gave him a pointed look.  
“Don’t worry love. I wouldn’t.”

They looked about for a while, but Mycroft seemed to be looking at the other customers more than the clothing items. Greg sighed and shook his head. Myc was so skittish. Any time one of the other patrons even came close, he’d hide behind another rack of underwear.

Greg found a pair that made his eyes widen. _Yes. I’m getting these for him whether he likes them or not._ They were dark blue, with silver handcuffs patterned over them. The rack he was looking at had all sorts of prints. There was a nice koi fish one, too. He picked it up as well.

“Right. Got your pants sorted. Socks?”  
“Are you going to let me see what you chose?”  
Greg looked from side to side, considering. “Yeah, alright, because it’s Christmas day.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows raised when he saw them, but instead of protesting, he blushed. Greg grinned.

“Socks!” Greg then skipped over to where the socks were. “One or two?”  
“Gregory, I cannot take anything with me, remember?”  
“Oh. Right.” He looked at both pairs of underwear. He couldn’t decide which he liked better. “Well, you can have the handcuffs and I’ll have the fish, to think of you.”  
Mycroft smiled fondly. “You are my goldfish, Gregory, yes. And you caught me a long time ago.”  
“Awh, aren’t you sweet? But these are Koi.” Greg laughed and pressed a kiss to Mycroft’s lips. “Same sentiment, I guess.”  
“I often would talk to my brother about living in a world of goldfish,” Mycroft explained.  
“I know. He would tease you about not finding one to love you.”

Greg then stopped after he’d said it. “I-I didn’t mean, that is, just, you’ve told me, and I–”  
“It’s alright, darling,” Mycroft said quietly. “I know. I have one now, so it doesn’t matter.”  
“Yes.”

Greg browsed the socks. He wanted to find ones with umbrellas, but he couldn’t find any. He did, however, find ones with doughnuts. “These match the cop stereotype of your pants?”  
Mycroft looked at them and chuckled. “Appropriate. You do like your doughnuts.”  
“Only sometimes! Ok yeah, I do like doughnuts.”  
“They’re perfect, thank you.”

“Oooo look, cupcakes! You love cake, right? Oh, and ice-cream ones! I’m gonna get myself these dessert ones for me, as a gift from you, to have you with me as well.”  
“I don’t… fine.” Mycroft sighed. Greg knew he was going to argue against loving desserts, but it wouldn’t be true.  
“It’s only cause I can’t find any goldfish or umbrellas in the socks,” he rationalised. Personally he rather thought the dessert socks were cute.


	19. December 24, 2009 - Mycroft

Mycroft wasn’t sure what he was going to see when he appeared. After the last few times, he learnt that it could be anything. With trepidation, he opened his eyes.

The first thing he realised was that what he was looking at wasn’t Greg’s flat. The second, was that there were lots of other people around. His heart raced as he started to panic, his mind filling in that he was standing in a restaurant.

“Excuse me, sir,” a man said as he pushed past him. Mycroft looked around, and noticed that he was standing at the entrance hall to the lavatories. He cleared his throat and walked out into the large dining area.

He instantly spotted Greg. He was sitting at the bar, looking about desperately. _He’s looking for me._ Mycroft’s heart swelled and he drifted over as quickly as he could.

Gregory grabbed him into a tight hug, and kissed him. Mycroft’s cheeks flared red; the bartender pretended not to notice, and he could feel the eyes of a few patrons on him.  
“It’s great to see you, Myc.”  
“And you, Gregory.”  
“It’s kinda good that I don’t remember you sometimes, since it means I don’t miss you as much. No, that’s not a… I mean, it’s good, but of course, it’s–”

Mycroft silenced him with another quick kiss. “It’s fine, darling. May I ask, why are we in a restaurant? And where is your wife?”  
“We’re at a hotel in Scotland,” Greg said, swirling the vestiges of his scotch in the glass. “I came down to the bar because I felt shit about myself, to be honest.”

Mycroft’s heart pulled. He took Greg’s hand. “Do you want to talk about it?”  
“Yeah. Not here though. Come on, walk with me.”

Greg stood and left the restaurant, Mycroft by his heels. He desperately wanted to hold Greg’s hand, but waited until they were walking down a hallway out of the lobby.

“Melissa’s cheating,” Greg said with a sigh. “Just like you said. She thinks I don’t know. I confronted her about it earlier, and she vehemently denied it. This whole holiday was supposed to be a ‘rekindling the romance’ thing, since she accused me of making it up because I wasn’t happy in the marriage.”

Mycroft hummed sympathetically. “I see. However it only leaves me more confused as to her location.”  
“Off at the spa,” Greg groaned. “Well, she says, at least. I should have wondered why suddenly she wanted to take a holiday here of all places, and was very strict about the time. She just said she wanted to avoid family too close to Christmas this year; focus on us first and all. She’s probably off shagging her lover in another room.”

Mycroft rubbed Gregory’s arm in a loose embrace. “I’m sorry. She does not deserve you.”  
“I can’t help but think I deserve it, for still being in a relationship with you.”

Mycroft said nothing, but it was a painful stab. His throat closed over, and he had to force it to let him speak again. “You don’t remember me.”  
“No, that’s true. But Myc, I’m fucking in love with you.”  
“And I you,” he chuckled.  
“I mean it. All year. The you from my time.”

He stopped in his tracks. “Oh,” he breathed, stunned. _Gregory loved him, honestly, from all those years ago?_  
“Is that so surprising?” Greg asked, tugging at Mycroft’s hand with a grin.  
“Yes.”  
“I don’t think so. I can’t see me ever not wanting you.”

Mycroft absent-mindedly followed Greg. His partner led him out of the building, and out along a garden path. It was dark, but there were old fashioned lamps lighting the way. Mycroft found it gorgeous, and very romantic – despite the cold. There was a light snow cover, dusting the trees and causing their footsteps to crunch.

He huddled closer to Greg, wishing he had his gloves, scarf, and coat. Greg’s hands were warm, at least.  
“We’ll go inside in a minute. I just need to clear my head, first. That alright, love?”  
“Of course,” Mycroft responded. His nose was starting to drip.  
“It’s nice, though. I haven’t had a white Christmas in ages.”  
“I’d say the same, however it wouldn’t be true despite it being the same Christmas as the one you are referring to.”

Greg laughed. It was a sound Mycroft loved, and never failed to warm him up inside. They walked down the path for a ways, along the edge of a forest. It was peaceful. He hoped the calm was helping ease whatever turmoil was unsettling Gregory’s mind.

“Do you feel better?” he asked, looking at Greg’s pink cheeks.  
“Yeah. I think just getting out of all…” Greg waved his hand towards the building. “…That… helped.”  
“I’m glad. Shall we head back in, now? We c-can come back out t-tomorrow if you like,” Mycroft stuttered, the cold making him shiver.  
“Awh, Myc, I’m sorry. Yeah, come on. Let’s get back up to my room and get you warmed up. A nice bath, perhaps?”

Mycroft smiled, and was about to make a lewd comment when his foot tripped on something hard buried in the snow. He stumbled, Greg’s strong arms instantly holding him tight and stopping him from toppling over.  
“I got you,” Greg uttered, his nose almost touching Mycroft’s.

He cleared his throat, his heart still pounding. “What on earth… what is that?” Mycroft bent down and picked up the strangely-shaped object. “An antler?”  
“It’s a small one,” Greg said, taking it from Mycroft’s palm. “A young deer?”  
“A Roe deer,” Mycroft corrected. “There are these smaller ridges here along the base that are indicative of that species. They are quite common all over Scotland; all of Britain, really.”  
“Do you know everything?” Greg joked, handing back the antler to Mycroft.  
“I know many things,” he responded, hesitantly. He cleared his throat. “It’s interesting that this should be found now; I believe they shed their antlers in October.”

Greg shrugged. “A dog could have dragged it in from the forest. Who knows. Point is, we now have another Christmas ornament.”

~

Mycroft rather liked the hotel. He didn’t care that they received some strange looks from the staff, who’d probably seen the booking under ‘Mr and Mrs Lestrade’. Mycroft couldn’t help but chuckle at how they pointedly refused to use any kind of pronoun or honorific addressing him, in case of offending. He had to credit them with being respectful, at least.

The bed was comfortable, and the bath had been wonderful and spacious. They elected to have breakfast delivered to their room, so they could share it in bed. Greg had planned to go out into the town for lunch, and Mycroft was more than happy to go with him still.

It did mean they had to actually put on clothes, however.

The area was indeed beautiful in the morning light. There were more people out than in the evening, but Mycroft found he didn’t mind. He held onto Greg’s hand all the same, and enjoyed the (minimal) warmth from the sun. The grounds were glittering white, and the picturesque mountain in the distance looked like it was from a postcard.

They found a small shop open for lunch, and sat at one of the tables. An elderly lady ran the place, and was rather over-the-top in her dousing of affection for them both. Mycroft found it was a strange sort of uncomfortable; he didn’t want to leave, as some of the comments about how perfect they looked together were rather nice, but he also wanted to be able to focus just on Gregory.

“Tea?” he asked, holding the teapot.  
“Thanks.”  
“Tea and scones on Christmas. Very English, and for once we’re not in England.”  
“Would you rather haggis?”  
“Lord no,” Mycroft groaned. He pulled a face and kept it looking disgusted until he had finished pouring the tea. “However there is shortbread here that I enjoy.”

Greg took one of the biscuits and took a large bite, the crumbs spilling over his plate and remaining on his lips. Mycroft smiled and shook his head, reaching over with his thumb and wiping the mess. He rolled his eyes as the elderly woman cooed at him.  
“It’s sweet,” Greg mumbled.  
“Yes, I know. But I dislike being so watched.”  
“It’ll be ok, love.” Greg patted Mycroft’s hand on the table. “Just focus on me. Or the food; it’s bloody excellent.” 

Greg held the shortbread out for Mycroft to take, and so Mycroft decided he’d take it with his teeth instead of holding it to nibble. He hummed in agreement. “Delightful, yes.”  
“And this smells _amazing_ ,” Greg said, lifting the jam pot up for Mycroft to sniff. “We have to get some to take home.”

Mycroft’s stomach flipped as he remembered that they weren’t going to be going home. Greg would be going home with his wife, and Mycroft was going to disappear and reappear the following year. He forcefully shoved down those thoughts and sniffed the jar.

“Indeed,” he hummed, and took it to spread some on his fresh scone. He quickly took a bite. “Exquisite. Cherry jam with Christmas spices.”  
Greg followed suit and soon was taking massive bites of his own meal.  
“Slow down, sweetheart. There’s plenty here.”  
“I know,” Greg said, his voice muffled with un-chewed food. “It’s just so good.”

Mycroft winced at the display. He nodded and looked away, eliciting a chuckle from Greg.  
“Sorry. I’ll swallow before talking.”  
“Please.”  
“Fruit cake?” Greg picked up the plate with sliced cake on it and offered him one.  
“Dundee cake,” Mycroft corrected as he picked one up. “Essentially the same thing, but with almonds instead of cherries.”  
“Oh.” Greg shrugged. “Christmassy all the same.”

The elderly lady returned to their table with another plate of cakes and slices. She smiled warmly at them both, patting Mycroft’s shoulder, and then left again.  
“Did you order anything that wasn’t a dessert, Gregory?”  
“Course.” He bit into one of the newly arrived sweets and swallowed. “But you love the desserts the most, so I picked mostly that.”

He had to smile at that. “I cannot argue with you there,” Mycroft said, picking up a caramel slice topped with chocolate.  
“There’s some cheese and biscuits coming too. Saving the roast meats for dinner.”  
“Wise.”

They grazed the array of treats and savoury bites on the table for some time, making light conversation. It was lovely to sit, relaxed, inside in the warm with hot tea, looking out the window to a white village scene.

“So,” Greg said, in that tone that he used when he wanted to talk about something sensitive but wanted to keep it light. Mycroft returned his full attention to his partner, his heart suddenly beating faster as his mind panicked. _Is he going to talk about wanting to not spend time with me? That he wants to stay with his wife next year? Is he going to say he wasn’t serious when saying he was going to marry me?_

“Myc, what’s wrong?”  
“Nothing,” he said, tense. Greg frowned at him.  
“Then why do you look like I’m about to break up with you?”  
“I’m not. Just say what you were going to.” 

Greg looked confused, and concerned. “Alright. I was just going to ask how Sherlock’s doing at this time of year, if you knew. I haven’t heard from him in a bit.”

Relief washed over him. He released the breath he was holding subconsciously. “Oh,” he said, and chuckled. “Fine. Honestly actually fine. He’s actually agreed to go into rehab, like you told him to, and stay clean. Your rather, um, energetic speech motivated him enough to follow through.”

Greg leant back in his chair. “Oh, good. I mean, he was doing so well, and then… yeah. I can’t blame him for backsliding, I mean, relapses happen, right? But I can’t have him around when he’s high. I can’t. I’m happy to help him stay distracted, and lord knows he’s brilliant and the ultimate goal is just to make London safer, but he has to follow the basic rules.”

“I agree with you. The me from this time is out there with him now, getting him ready to leave the facility and relocate to a more appropriate dwelling. Somewhere where the temptation isn’t quite so on his doorstep, literally.”

“Good!” Greg cheered, and then lowered his voice, having caught the attention of the shop owner again. He cleared his throat. “That’s, uh, really good. I’m pleased. So it works?”  
“Yes,” Mycroft answered simply. “A combination of the new house and his new flatmate has proven utterly life changing for my brother.”  
“John. He’s finally moving in with John?”

Mycroft had forgotten he’d talked about John with Greg in the past, and was surprised that Greg had remembered. “Yes,” he said, nodding. “Soon. The end of January, actually.”  
“Good. He needs someone.”  
“That he does. I’ll have my reservations, but John turns out to be what my brother needed. In the end.”

Greg looked at him suspiciously. “What do you mean by that?”  
Mycroft looked at the table, and pushed some food about with his fork. “There are some difficult times ahead, Greg.”

Mycroft knew he shouldn’t talk about everything that was in Greg’s future, even if the man wasn’t going to remember it. He didn’t want to spend their time together explaining everything that was about to happen when it was a futile exercise.

Greg seemed to understand, and just held his hand. “That’s ok. Whatever is going to happen is going to happen, and so we’ll just focus on the here and now.”  
“I’d appreciate that.”

Greg leaned forward and kissed Mycroft. He heard a squeak of excitement from the elderly lady, but found himself just smiling into the kiss.


	20. December 24, 2010 - Greg

He had to give her another chance. Part of him somehow knew that by giving her a second chance, he was being reasonable. He didn’t understand why, but he’d always had the nagging sense that Melissa deserved more patience regarding her infidelity than what his mind told him was reasonable.

Honestly, he’d wanted to let it be the end of things. After what had happened last Christmas, he had spent months debating whether or not to follow his instincts and give it another try, or to just cut his losses and leave. She’d made him go up to that hotel in Scotland only so she could spend the holiday in luxury with her lover! Who would do that?

Part of why he’d decided that Melissa deserved another chance, the logical part beyond his strange feeling, was that he had to question if he’d honestly been giving the relationship his all. He’d been working a lot, and he knew it took a strain on their relationship. More than that, however, was that he was still head-over-heels infatuated with Mycroft Holmes.

They’d spent a lot of time together this year while Sherlock and John Watson had gotten to know each other. Greg was glad that Sherlock had someone, and felt almost like a proud dad when he saw the utter devotion in the man’s eyes just that very first night.

He’d argued a bit with Mycroft, who was very much still the paranoid mother-hen regarding his baby brother. Greg had insisted to let Sherlock live his life, and to trust that it would work out. He couldn’t deny that there was the potential for disaster; Sherlock was always dramatic and endangered himself carelessly, and also very emotional. As much as Mycroft insisted he didn’t believe that to be true, Greg knew that the man also worried about the strength of Sherlock’s attachment to his new friend and what would become of it.

Greg smiled to himself, thinking how it’d often felt like he was a parent to Sherlock with Mycroft. He honestly would enjoy that. Mycroft always seemed different in his presence; not his usual disinterested self, but a very emotional man hiding behind a mask that waxed and waned in how much it covered. Mycroft Holmes was indeed an interesting, and titillating, enigma.

He found the shoebox in his cupboard. It still had the note on it, and he knew that it was important _every_ year, not just the one he found it on. There were more items inside this year, and yet he still couldn’t recall how they’d gotten there.

He picked out an antler. It was about twenty centimetres long, and rough around the base. It was new. He shook his head and put it back where he kept the Christmas stuff. Melissa would only tell him to throw it all away again if she saw it.

He looked out over the living room, satisfied that there were enough lights and the tree was sufficiently decorated, before turning out the lights and leaving. He sighed as he shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and went to work.

Melissa had been angry when Greg had informed her he was working again this year over Christmas. He knew it wasn’t exactly the best way to try and make amends for being away for work so often, but deep down he’d been thankful that his Super had insisted he worked this year.

He didn’t have any good memories of Christmas Eve or Christmas Day, and after last year, he was rather glad not to have to be around his wife all the while thinking about it. 

They’d separated for over half of the year, until she’d demanded to try working things out. He didn’t know what she was doing while he was at work for the next two days, but he found he didn’t particularly care. 

“Evening, boss.”  
“Sally.” Greg nodded to her as he entered his office.  
“You’re stuck with the evening shift again too?”  
“Yeah. I don’t mind, honestly, since it gives people who have families with kids to spend the night getting all excited for Santa.”

Sally’s thin lipped smile was all he needed to know about her opinion on the matter. She’d talked to him about it twice, how his wife didn’t deserve him and that he shouldn’t give her another chance. She’d also tried to set him up while they were separated, but he’d refused.

She’d tried to force him, and the only way Greg could honestly think to get out of it was to confess his gay-leaning bisexuality to her. She’d been surprisingly understanding, and not once tried to argue with him on account of him being married to a woman.

“There’s a party on later, if you wanted to go.”  
“We should be working, Sal.”  
“We’ll still all be here on call, but there’s people coming in for the evening who’re off, and there’ll be food and stuff.”  
“No alcohol, though, right?”  
“Of course.”

Greg nodded. Thankfully, his division didn’t get a whole lot of calls on Christmas Eve. “Maybe. When does it start?”  
“Starts at seven, and goes until midnight.”  
“That’s ages.”  
“Yeah, but the changeover of shifts is at ten, so the crowd’ll change.”

“Right.” Greg looked at the paperwork on his desk. “I might get these done instead.”  
“Greg. You have to get out there and have some fun. You’re not getting any younger.”  
“Thanks for that, Sal.”  
“Just being honest, boss. Seriously though… there’s a few blokes in there who’d–”  
“Donovan,” Greg said warningly, but without threat. She understood that he just wanted her to stop talking, and so nodded.  
“Well the option’s there.”

~

At nine, Donovan, Anderson, and Dimmock had come to his office and dragged him into the party happening in the breakroom. They had only had two minor calls for the evening, and he only had an hour left of his shift, so he let them.

He nibbled on some of the pastries on the table and helped himself to some of the non-alcoholic punch. The music wasn’t overly loud, thankfully, but there were a lot of people there. He didn’t understand why they all weren’t home with their families. Upon closer inspection, he noticed that barely any of them were in his division, and it seemed that the staff of the entire building had congregated in the one room.

_At least they won’t know me,_ he thought as he stood to the side and watched the dancing. Donovan jerked her head to one of the young men standing close by him, also watching, and winked. He just rolled his eyes.

He then dropped his cup as he saw Mycroft appear in the corner near the door. The memories came flooding back. He quickly picked his cup up and began to make his way over to Mycroft as quickly as he could.

By the time he got there, Mycroft was looking close to having a panic attack.  
“Mycroft!”  
“Gregory, what, why… where?”  
“Shh, it’s ok. It’s just the office Christmas party. Well, for those of us unlucky enough to be working.”

Mycroft clenched his jaw and then fled the room. Greg ran after him, finding him standing by a desk and taking steady breaths.  
“You alright?”  
“Mhm,” Mycroft hummed. He stood straight and flattened his waistcoat. “Merely a shock.”  
“I’m sorry love. I know you hate crowds.”

“So, you’re working again this year?”  
“Yeah. Just until ten. Then tomorrow I’m working from eleven in the morning.”  
Mycroft’s face fell in pain. Greg reached out and grabbed his hands. “Hey, it’ll be alright, dear. I know it’s not convenient, but we’ll make it work.”

Greg pulled him into a hug. He could see the crowd still and suddenly realised that people were going to be wondering why Mycroft Holmes was there.  
“Quick, come this way,” he said, and dragged Mycroft away down the hall. “We need to get you a disguise.”  
“Wait, what?”  
“We can’t have everyone recognising you.”  
“I see,” Mycroft said carefully.

Greg opened the storage closet and pulled out the Santa costume. “Put this on.”  
“No.”  
“Myc, please.”  
“Gregory,” Mycroft pouted, but Greg just shook his head.

Mycroft sighed and began stepping into the red pants. He then put the coat on, and Greg passed him a pillow.  
“Why, Gregory?”  
“Santa has a belly.”  
“I have enough of one.”  
“Mycroft Holmes.” Greg stared intently at his partner, and was pleased to see him squirm slightly. “You put that on.”  
“Yes, dear,” Mycroft said, resigned. Greg chuckled and pressed a kiss on his lips.

He fixed the beard on, and stood back to admire. It was indeed difficult to see who Mycroft really was. “Perfect. Alright, off we go.”

~

Greg danced, his heart much lighter than when he’d joined the party initially. He, of course, continued to have his phone on him, but thankfully he wasn’t called for anything.

Mycroft continued to look uncomfortable, but no one seemed bothered by his presence. It was a good camouflage, Greg concluded, since not only was Mycroft’s true identity kept secret, no one tried to make small talk with him either. They just smiled at him, and left him be.

Greg kept himself close to Mycroft as much as he could. He couldn’t resist giving little innocuous touches, and occasionally readjusting the beard when it became loose. He desperately wanted to press him up against the wall and snog him senseless, everyone else be damned.

When ten came around, he was glad that he could take Mycroft by the hand and lead him out of the party. He did, however, catch Sally’s eye as he was leaving and saw her smirk and wink. _Well, she’s not wrong, at least_.

“Wait,” Greg said, pausing at the last doorway. He stopped, looked up at the mistletoe hanging there, and looked back at Mycroft.  
“Gregory,” Myc breathed, going even redder than before. Greg smiled, and then kissed him quickly.  
“I’m not going to ravish you in front of my colleagues, don’t worry,” he mumbled.

Greg then reached up and took the mistletoe. “This year’s ornament,” he explained, tucking it into Mycroft’s collar. “You keep it there until we’re ready to use it.”  
“Uh, yeah, sure.” Mycroft looked conflicted between wanting to remove the plant from his chest, and wanting Greg to keep looking at him the way he was.  
“I’ll go on a hunt for it later, with my tongue,” Greg whispered, and then pulled him out of the building.

~

“Gregory, do you _have_ to work today?”  
Greg groaned and rubbed his face. “Yes, Myc. I really do. Why don’t you come with me?”  
“I cannot be dressed as father Christmas again, and therefore my identity would become known.”  
“Yeah, I know. Lots of awkward questions. I’m sorry, love, I really am. I finish at six, though?”  
“So we’ll have a couple of hours before you head over to my brother’s,” Mycroft grumbled.

Greg paused stirring the bowl of batter for pancakes. “Wait, what?”  
“My brother and his ‘partner’ are hosting Christmas this year,” Mycroft said. “You were invited, were you not?”  
“Right.” Greg wracked his brains, and realised that Sherlock had indeed invited him, and he’d agreed since Melissa wasn’t going to be around until boxing day. “Yeah, I said I’d go to that. Wait, partner? They’re… together?”  
“Theirs is a partnership regardless of sexual desire,” Mycroft said, his nose screwing at the mention of sex in relation to his brother.  
“Didn’t he say to get there at seven?”  
“Gregory, why are you asking me? I was never invited, and it was some time ago for me.”

Greg huffed into the bowl and kept stirring. “If you’re not there I don’t know if I’m really wanting to go, actually.”  
“Sherlock honestly cares deeply for you, Gregory. He would be rather hurt if you didn’t show up.”

He sighed as he poured the batter into the buttered pan with a sizzle. “Yeah, I know. But, won’t he work it out?”  
“That you’re seeing me? If he is able to work out this arrangement, then it would prove him to be even better at deductions than I am.”  
“No, I meant… just that I’ve been with you, him thinking that it’s the you from his time.”

Mycroft pursed his lips and hummed. “Perhaps. You may need to act overly interested in women while you’re there to put him off the scent.”  
Greg laughed. “I think he’s gotten my sexuality already. But sure, love, whatever you say. It’s not going to say much though, when I walk in there after just shagging you.”  
“You’re planning on that?”

Greg grinned evilly at Mycroft.  
“But you’ll not remember me after nine thirteen,” Mycroft said. “Would they notice a change in your behaviour?”  
“Don’t really care.”

They sat and ate their pancakes, Greg having maple syrup and Mycroft having defrosted blueberries.  
“We can still have lunch together?” Greg asked, spearing the last of his pancakes with his fork.  
“Of course.”  
“You sound upset.”  
“I…” Mycroft sighed and pushed his plate away. “It’s silly to feel bad about you needing to work.”  
“It’s not. I am sorry about it, love.”  
“I know. Just… time with you is infinitely better than time without you. I don’t know what to do with myself without your company, I’ve grown that accustomed to your presence.”

Greg smiled as he took the plates to the sink. “That’s sweet. I’ll see you at lunch, and I’ll let you know how miserable my day has gone without you there in it.”

~

He wasn’t exaggerating. The time spent apart from Mycroft, knowing the man was out there, was excruciating. The time dragged on and on, so much so it was almost impossible to think that it was the same duration of time as in his partner’s company.

Sally bothered him briefly about kissing Santa, and tried to fish for details when Greg returned the costume. He said nothing about it, and asked her not to either.

During his morning tea, Mycroft met him in the car park and they had coffee from a vendor. They chatted, and Greg apologised again for the unfortunate circumstances. Mycroft reassured him that it was ok, and he was taking the opportunity to look upon his brother again in a happier time. It made Greg feel a little sad, but as long as Mycroft was alright, he was too.

He spent his entire lunch break with Mycroft at a local restaurant – they stayed open for Christmas every year as a favour to the officers that often frequented the establishment – where they had an enjoyable, if slightly busy, lunch.

Greg pressed Mycroft up against the car park wall and snogged him in the dark during his afternoon tea break. He worked himself up quite a lot, and desperately wanted to turn it into a quick shag, but Mycroft was too uncomfortable with the threat of being caught. Greg had to admit, it was rather a turn on for him. He left asking himself when he’d started being into that, concluding it was just the excitement of having Mycroft there that drove him a little wild.


	21. December 24, 2011 - Mycroft

Mycroft suddenly felt a whole lot colder. Looking around, he realised he wasn’t in the apartment; he was outside. He spun around, and then realised where he was. His stomach dropped and he bit his lip. _Not here… God, no. Greg…_

Before him Greg looked a solemn figure. He was standing amongst the graves, his head stooped. Mycroft took a step towards him, just as Greg bent over double.

He ran to bridge the distance. Greg stood upright just in time for Mycroft to change tactics and embrace him.

“Mycroft,” Greg muttered into his shoulder.  
“I’m here,” he soothed, running his hand along Gregory’s back. “It’s ok.”  
“No,” Greg said, voice strained. He sniffled. “I mean, yes, it’s better now that you’re here, but it’s not ok.”  
“Gregory–”  
“I know why you looked so sad when talking of him now. I-I get why you would watch, these years… just to see him again.”  
“He’s not dead, Greg.”

Gregory pulled out of the hug and looked at Mycroft. The man’s features were gaunt and haunted, his face lined, and his eyes pained. It broke Mycroft’s heart.  
“But… he jumped, Myc.”  
“Yes, he did. But it was a set up.”  
“John saw him.”  
“Yes,” he groaned, closing his eyes. “Unfortunately that had to happen. But I assure you, darling, Sherlock isn’t dead.” Mycroft cupped Greg’s cheek and stroked it with his thumb, wiping the tear that glistened in the dull light. “I talked of him when I told you about Sherrinford, remember?”

Greg whimpered, looking lost. “But… I don’t understand.”  
“Moriarty had to be stopped. Sherlock and I planned it to happen this way. Right now, he’s off dismantling Moriarty’s web. It’ll be difficult, and the subterfuge had to be maintained for your, John’s, and his safety – at least, as safe as it gets where he is, doing what he’s doing – but I promise you, love. He’s alive and he will come home.”

Mycroft stood there, still holding Gregory as he processed the information. He looked about, wanting to get away from the cemetery and his brother’s fake grave stone. Even now it still unsettled him.

“He… really?” Greg’s voice was hopeful, tinged with grief and mourning. He trembled in Mycroft’s grasp. “O-oh god, h-he’s… Christ.” Greg took some deep breaths, and then looked up at the sky. “He’s alive.”

Mycroft pulled him in to a hug again. “Yes.” _He’s so relieved. He cares so much, the poor man. I hated having to do this to him… at least I can be honest, this time._

“Wait, why my safety? And John’s? Why did he need to do it?”  
“Moriarty had snipers on you, John, and Mrs Hudson. Unless Sherlock jumped, you all would have been killed.”  
“Jesus,” Greg hissed. “Well that’s a no win situation if I ever heard one. I-I’m flattered, actually, that he considered me important enough.”

Mycroft took Greg’s hands in his own. “Come on. Let’s get you home, dear. You’re freezing.”  
“Yeah,” Greg agreed. “It won’t be as miserable there anymore. Bloody hell. You show up and suddenly life gets turned upside down – but in the way like I was buried alive and you’ve unearthed me.”  
Mycroft tensed at the metaphor. It was still uncomfortable to imagine it happening, and such being said right on his brother’s grave was too much. Greg seemed to notice, and shut his mouth.  
“God, sorry. I didn’t mean… yeah, let’s go home.”

They walked hand in hand out of the cemetery. Mycroft could tell Greg was feeling much lighter than when he’d entered, and he felt proud that he was able to do that. It gutted him that Greg wouldn’t remember in a day’s time, and would be back to suffering so deeply.

“I’m sorry that I am so absent in your life during this period,” Mycroft said after a moment of silence, into the dark. “I love you so much that it is extremely painful to see you suffering and continue to lie to you and keep you in that grief.”  
“I depend on you more than you realise,” Greg said, measured. “You disappear just after Sherlock’s death, which happened not long after my divorce, and I can’t even distract myself with work… I’m in a pretty bad place, Myc.”  
“I’m sorry,” he winced. “So sorry, love. I didn’t realise then.”

Greg nodded silently. Mycroft looked at him, the lamp light accentuating the harsh lines on his face. “How do you feel, now?”  
“A lot better, but it’s only for a day.” Greg groaned and sighed. “After that… it’ll be back to how it was before you showed up. Fucking depressed, lonely, smoking again, thinking of the bridge…”  
“Gregory.” Mycroft squeezed his hand. “I… there are no words. I should have been there for you. I-I was stressed, myself, given that I had to stay away from you entirely in order to keep up the deception, but also because I didn’t know if Sherlock was dead or alive for large amounts of time. It still doesn’t forgive me for leaving you so alone.”  
“We’ve worked up a pretty close… aquaintenceship, by now. Friendship, I’d thought, even.”

Mycroft said nothing. Greg took a deep breath and leant against him. “I’m not holding it against you, love. We’ll still have a good Christmas. I’m not going to let the rest of the year tarnish it. It’s good, you know. It’s like… drowning, and then getting a chance to breathe again before having to go back under.”

They walked for some time again. Mycroft wanted to ask about the divorce, but didn’t want to upset him. “So, uh, w-was it, um, what happened in Scotland?”  
“Partly. That she did that at all was ridiculous, but that it was to try and rekindle the romance and she spent the time with her lover? Ok, yes, technically, I kinda did too. But I didn’t _intend_ to do it, and she’s technically the lover, since you came first, and she didn’t even exist in the space-time continuum for it–”  
“Gregory, you don’t have to rationalise yourself,” Mycroft commented.

“Right. Well, yeah, after that… I said I’d give her another chance. Why? Probably because somehow I was feeling guilty over not giving it my all. Residual feelings from you at Christmas time as well as having a _major_ crush on the you from my time. But after being separate for those months, her begging for another chance and me giving it to her, only to then be told by Sherlock that she was still lying… yeah, that killed it.”

“So how long?”  
“Divorced in March.”  
“I see. I’m… honestly? I’m not sorry. Just sad that you feel alone.”

Greg laughed. “Thanks. I think that sums up my feelings about it, too.”  
“Yeah. Scotland was low, even for her.”  
“Mhm,” Greg hummed. “But at least we had a good time.”  
“Oh, yes. It was excellent. Christmas snow and scones. I still had the sugar high yest-er, last year. Speaking of,” Mycroft said, and bent down to the ground and plucked up a piece of torn tartan ribbon. “Scotland.”

Greg took it from his hand. It wasn’t dirty (or Mycroft would not have picked it up), but it was fraying at one end. Greg inspected it and smiled.  
“The good times are still around,” Greg said. “And we have a decoration now.”  
“Really?” Mycroft screwed his face. “A tatty ribbon?”  
“It’s appropriate. A bit torn and seemingly unwanted, but still a reminder of better times.”

Mycroft shrugged and nodded. They continued back to the flat, which was entirely dark and had no decorations to speak of.  
“Did you want to put the decorations up?”  
“I’ll not remember come tomorrow night that I did it,” Greg answered, pulling out the shoebox. “It’ll be a bit of work for just the one night. We’d have to pack it away again before nine thirteen, or I won’t know to keep everything.”

“Maybe just the decorations then. A-and the fairy lights. To music?”  
“You and your fairy lights, Myc,” Greg laughed. He pressed a kiss on Mycroft’s lips. “Sure.”

~

Mycroft was drifting off on the sofa, nestled in Greg’s arms. It was always a little more difficult to curl up into his partner, given his slight height difference and lanky body, but it was definitely comfortable.

He found himself wishing Greg had a fireplace, again. If only they could have gone to his house. Mycroft had always loved staring into the coals, watching the light dance and flicker.

He blinked, and suddenly Tempest was there, lazing on the floor by the wall he’d been imagining a hearth. He groaned internally, but had to admit that it was because of her that he was even still living a happy life with Gregory.

“Alright, just letting you know that your Greg’s wife is in existence, from now on,” she said, rolling her shoulders. “You really should put a fireplace here, and a nice fur rug.”  
Mycroft smiled softly at her, and nodded. “Thank you,” he mouthed.  
“I’m finished with my list, now.”  
“Finished? So you… I won’t see you again?”  
“What’s that, Myc?” Greg asked, inhaling as he shook himself back awake. He’d been dozing too, apparently.

“I was talking to Tempest,” Mycroft murmured.  
“Oh. Say hello for me,” Greg said with a yawn.  
“Hello,” Tempest responded. “And no, you’ll see me again still, sorry to disappoint you.”

Mycroft didn’t respond. He could feel the intended jab for a response in her words, but he honestly couldn’t feel it in him to jibe with her. She noticed, and frowned at him.  
“What’s wrong?” she asked.  
“I appreciate what you did,” Mycroft said quietly, looking down. “For us.”  
“Oh.” Tempest looked stunned, like it wasn’t often she was thanked sincerely. “Of course. You’re welcome.”

“Why can’t I see her?”  
Tempest turned her attention to Greg, and then back to Mycroft. “He disappeared from my list once I took you there. I technically wasn’t assigned to him, in the end, and so he can’t see me.”  
“She says that because she didn’t have to come save you, you can’t see her.”  
“Ah. Good, I guess. Still, not being a part of these conversations is hard. It looks like you’re crazy, Myc, when you two chat.”

Mycroft still didn’t feel like he had any fight in him to even banter good naturedly. He just lay content in Gregory’s arms. He was trying not to think of beyond today; for Greg, it was another year of anguish, and for Mycroft, his time with Greg was quickly running out. Focusing on having his love’s arms wrapped around him was a comforting denial.

“I haven’t really spent that much time here really looking at what the two of you get up to.” Tempest stood and ran her hand over the hanging decorations, causing them to rustle. “This is sweet.”  
“Oh! Did she just move the decorations?”  
“Yes, Gregory.” Mycroft chuckled at his partner’s enthusiasm.  
“It’s like having a ghost in my living room. Except a friendly one, like Casper.”

Mycroft couldn’t help but laugh. “Not sure about ‘friendly’,” he giggled. “Cantankerous, perhaps.” He then looked at her seriously. “But kind, underneath it all, I think.”  
“Tempest the Cantankerous Ghost,” Greg concluded. “Has a nice ring to it.”  
“I’m not a ghost,” Tempest protested, flaring her pierced nostrils and crossing her arms.

“I’m really not in the mood to act as an intermediary between the two of you,” Mycroft said, sighing and leaning his head back into Greg.  
“Of course. You’re right. You should make the most of the time you have left, eh?”

Mycroft looked up at her, suddenly suspicious and afraid. He nodded, wary. “So it is going to end, then?”  
“Is it?” she asked.  
“Well, this all is only until I get back to where I was, and that was, you know.”  
“Yes. I remember.” She ran her hand through her short, spiked hair. “And you know what happens then.”

Mycroft dropped his features and nodded slowly. He did know. Tempest said his life belonged to her, and that his purpose was to appear for Greg each year until he was back there on the bridge.

Before he found out that Greg would forget him, he’d thought that it’d all change. That he never would get to the bridge somehow, and that he’d be there living a life with Gregory. A happy life; one like he’d been living in this perpetual Christmas.

Then he realised that it all had to stay the same. Tempest told him that herself. Everything that brought him to the bridge was going to still happen, was happening around him, and he would end up exactly where he was, facing the exact same things… except this time, he had memories of what could have been, and Greg wouldn’t. It was a poor consolation prize, but he wouldn’t give it up.

Laying there in Greg’s arms, he knew that he didn’t want to go. He didn’t want it all to end. His lip trembled as he tried to remain in control of himself.  
“Oh, hey, sweetheart, what’s wrong? Did she say something?”  
Mycroft shook his head. “It’s not that,” he sniffled. “Just… I’m going to miss you.” _But not for very long, at least._

The arms around him tightened. “I’m right here, love. You don’t have to miss me.”  
He smiled. “No. You’re right.”  
“Listen to him, Mycroft.” Tempest stood closer, smiling down at him, faint traces of pity on her face. “I’ll see you soon. Well, soon for me.”

Mycroft nodded, and Tempest disappeared. Greg’s fingers ran through his hair soothingly.  
“Oh my sweet Mycroft. You’re so vulnerable underneath, you know? That’s not necessarily a bad thing, mind. It makes me feel important that I can take care of you like you need.”  
“You’re always important,” he responded, twisting to snuggle closer.

Greg kissed his forehead. “I wish I didn’t have to forget.”  
“So do I.”


	22. December 24, 2012 - Greg

Greg looked at the suitcase on the floor. He didn’t want to be spending Christmas Day with his mum, but she’d been rather insistent given how shitty he’d been feeling for a while now. Since Sherlock’s death. His mum had been sympathetic about the divorce, but had told him she thought it was for the best, revealing that she never liked Melissa or the way she treated him.

He’d ended up relenting, since Sophie had then interrupted the conversation and informed him that if he didn’t spend the day with them all at mum’s, then they’d all force their way into Greg’s place on Christmas eve. Given that his sister had a toddler and a newborn, and would be bringing her husband, there wasn’t enough space for them all. That hadn’t seemed to deter her, or his mum.

He looked out of the window of the dark room. He knew he shouldn’t sit there in the dark feeling sorry for himself, but he couldn’t help it. He’d hoped that Mycroft would break their radio silence at some point and they could console each other and find company together.

He groaned and rubbed his face. He was still in love with the elder Holmes, which made it so much worse to feel guilty over Sherlock’s death. Greg wanted to be able to offer his deepest regrets to Mycroft, and hope that he’d be forgiven. Not because he necessarily felt he deserved forgiveness, but because he wanted Mycroft to understand that he was only trying to do his best by his brother. And, hopefully, they could resume their friendship. Maybe more.

Greg hated how distant Mycroft was. He’d tried calling, tried dropping by, but the few times he’d seen Mycroft, he’d been cordially dismissed. But he could see the signs of stress in the man’s features, and the minute mannerisms that let on to a deep struggle. He’d accepted the dismissal if only to try and ease some of Mycroft’s strain.

“Gregory?”

Greg’s heart leapt, and he looked up at Mycroft, standing at the window. He broke out into a smile, and couldn’t help but exhale loudly and laugh. _Sherlock’s not dead. Mycroft’s in love with me. I’m not alone._

“Are you going somewhere?” Mycroft asked, noticing the suitcase on the floor.  
“I had planned on going to the family lunch tomorrow. It was more a demand than a request, actually, on their part. They were all going to come here instead if I didn’t agree.”  
“Why would… oh.”

Greg could feel Mycroft’s eyes scanning him in the moonlight. He shifted and rubbed his arm. “Yeah. Depressed. They don’t want me alone.”  
“That’s quite considerate and caring of them.”  
“Mhm.” Greg nodded, but still felt embarrassed.

Mycroft walked forward and pulled him forward into a hug. Greg reached around his slim middle and hugged tightly. “Don’t have to go, now,” he mumbled into the suit fabric.  
“Won’t they wonder why you didn’t show up? Surely that would only make them more worried about your health.”

_Yes, that is actually a fair point._ “But I want to stay here with you.”  
“I want to be with you too.”  
“You could, I dunno, come with me?” He tried not to sound too hopeful. He knew Mycroft would likely decline, and it wasn’t just because of being shy around social groups. There was the timeline to consider, after all.

“I-I don’t know if that’d be a good idea,” Mycroft said awkwardly. “I mean, I would love to spend Christmas with your family as your partner, however, there’s, um, the problem of, uh…”  
“The you in my timeline not being my partner, yes,” Greg finished despondently. “Not through my lack of trying, though.”

Mycroft winced and looked down at him. “I’m sorry, dear. I’m utterly hopeless when it comes to romance… well, really, emotions. I honestly haven’t noticed your interest in me as being genuinely romantically inclined.”  
“So all the times I’ve flirted with you, you really had no idea?”  
“None. I’d recognised it as being potentially meaning more, but always dismissed the idea as fanciful thinking on my part.”  
“Let me guess; because you couldn’t think of anyone being capable of loving you.”

The fact that Mycroft didn’t respond was all the affirmation he needed. 

“What are you going to do?” Mycroft sat down on the bed next to him and looked into his eyes, waiting for an answer.  
“I don’t know,” he groaned. “I want to stay with you, here. But once you’re gone, I think I’m probably going to want to be around other people for a bit.”

Mycroft nodded at him. Greg leant over and turned on the lamp beside the bed. He couldn’t help but grin when the warm light set Mycroft’s ginger hair alight. He ran a hand over the prickly beard, and then let his fingers trail down the man’s waistcoat.

“Your mother,” Mycroft said, effectively killing the stirrings of the mood. “She isn’t one to generally look for supporting evidence, correct?”  
“Wha- no, I guess not?”  
“Well, in that case, I could call her and tell her that you have been injured and will attend her gathering after dinner, and may not have recollection of what happened.”  
“And lie? She’ll be upset and fussing over me.”

Greg honestly didn’t like the casual shrug Mycroft gave at the mention of lying. He took a moment to breathe through it. _Mycroft is a secret service agent, or the head of them… he has had to lie for people’s lives before. It doesn’t make him a bad person for being ok with lying._  
“She’s likely to be fussing over you regardless.”  
“True. Yeah, I suppose. Just nothing serious, yeah?”  
“Mild concussion? Perhaps you slipped down the stairwell?”

Greg groaned. “Can’t we have something more elegant? Maybe injured in the line of duty?”  
“No. The comedic element will help distract from further questioning, and it being an incident occurring alone and not involved with your work would mean the evidence trail would be expectantly non-existent.”  
“Forgot you thought of everything,” he mumbled. He shook his head, but smiled when he saw Mycroft’s face begin to worry. “Yeah, fine. It means I can take my time making you scream.”

He grinned slyly when he saw Mycroft blush. All these years and he could still make Mycroft blush with the mention of sex. _It’s not been years for him, though. Still, it’s been enough time that would generally remove the blushing._

~

“What are you doing?”

Greg tilted his head as he saw Mycroft fishing around in the cupboard under the sink. He was standing at the doorway wearing his dressing gown, loosely draped over his naked body. Mycroft looked up at him, smiled, and pulled out a bottle brush triumphantly.

“You’re going to do the dishes?”  
“No. I’m making our decoration.”  
“Oh.” Greg looked at the item in Mycroft’s hands. He’d forgotten he’d even had it. “How?”  
“Just need some scissors and… do you still have any of those wooden slices?”  
“No.”

Mycroft stood there, holding the brush, frowning in the middle of the kitchen. Greg just waited as he looked about.   
“Do you have a cork, perhaps?”

Greg squinted, trying to remember. “Yeah, in the bin, I think.” He waited a moment, but since Mycroft didn’t move, he shook his head good naturedly and went fishing through the rubbish. He washed it before handing it to Mycroft, who had pulled out Greg’s kitchen shears.

He watched with interest as Mycroft chopped the bristles at the end into a point, trimmed the wire to remove the handle, and then stuck the end into the cork.  
“There. A tree.” Mycroft proudly presented the ornament to Greg.  
“So creative,” he mused, taking the little tree. Now that he saw it, he rather liked it. “It would have been better if my bottle brush was green, instead of white.”  
“A snowy tree,” Mycroft amended. “At least you hadn’t used it.”

~

They spent the day in what Greg could only call blissful ignorance. Mycroft was trying hard not to think about their time together coming to an end, and Greg was ignoring all of the thoughts that kept poking him about forgetting it come that night. He didn’t want to be stuck back in that dark hole, where he was alone, guilty, and mourning. It had been a year, yes, and the grief wasn’t as sharp, but even dull blades still hurt.

Greg made Mycroft some Thai food, and Mycroft strangely had no qualms about having dessert. They cuddled for most of the day, and whilst they were both naked for most of the time, they more enjoyed the company that over exerted themselves.

Once evening came, Greg reluctantly had to begin putting the decorations away. It was painful, but it was what needed to happen. He couldn’t risk anything being tossed away. Mycroft was upset about it as well, but Greg tried to keep the mood light with some stories and happy music.

“Not long now,” Mycroft said slowly.  
“Until next year.”  
“Yes.”

Greg felt he should say something, to try and lift Mycroft’s spirits somehow, but he couldn’t find the words. He settled for kissing him gently.


	23. December 24, 2013 - Mycroft

Sounds. Loud, joyous singing, and a low rumble. There was a pressure against his back. Mycroft opened his eyes, and realised that he was laying down. Gregory was singing along with Christmas pop music near him. He turned his head, and realised he was laying down in the backseat of Gregory’s car.

“Gregory.”  
His stomach lurched as the car jerked.  
“Fuck!” Gregory exclaimed, flicking his eyes towards Mycroft in the rear-view mirror. He pulled over onto the side of the road. The man turned his head around to look at him. “Mycroft, you scared the shit out of me. I know it’s not your fault, but bloody hell, we could have had an accident.”  
“Apologies.”

Greg laughed and ran his hands over his face. “It’s fine. I was only just remembering when you spoke. It’s good to see you.”  
“And you. I admit it is rather strange to be standing one instance, and then be laying down the next.” Mycroft screwed his eyes together and took a deep breath to will the nausea away.  
“You alright?”  
“Fine.”

The car door opened, and suddenly Gregory was sliding into the backseat too. Mycroft shuffled along to make space. It didn’t matter, however, as Gregory pressed himself over Mycroft’s body and kissed him hard.  
“It’s good to see you.”  
“And you,” Mycroft said, his intended endearment being cut off by the man’s lips.

He let himself go into the kiss. It started low, longing, loving; soon it became heated and passionate. Greg’s hips ground down against Mycroft’s crotch, and he found himself becoming hard. Through the fabric, he could feel that his partner was the same.  
“Perhaps you should drive us home,” Mycroft breathed.  
“I want you right here, right now.”

Gregory’s eyes were blown wide, his face flushed and his lips red. It was a tantalising sight. Mycroft’s chest clenched, and he bit his lip.  
“That might be, uh, difficult.”  
“What, never had sex in a car before?”

Mycroft’s silence made Greg’s grin fall and he looked at him seriously. “You honestly haven’t, have you?”  
Mycroft shook his head. “What I have told you about my previous experiences truly is the extent of it, entirely.”  
“Oh.”  
Mycroft looked away shyly, mumbling, “I don’t know how it would even work.”

Greg’s sly grin returned, and he inched closer. “Would you like to find out?”

~

Mycroft held Greg close. He hadn’t exactly put a lot of thought into this year’s ornament, opting instead to spend as much time physically attached to Greg as possible. Still, the half walnut shell did match the rest of the natural decorations. They’d put them up together again this year, all twenty-two of them. It made his heart swell to see their shared history hung up over the window.

The house had been decorated again this year. Not excessively, and Mycroft had to pull out the fairy lights again (he just loved little warm white lights, he didn’t know why), but it was clear that Gregory was feeling a lot more optimistic about life this year than last.

“I just hugged him,” Greg said above the soft music. “Sherlock, that is.”  
“Yes.”  
“I wasn’t angry. I just was happy to see him. I knew he’d have a damned good reason for doing it, and honestly… whatever pain I’d feel about being lied to all that time paled in comparison to the grief of his death.”  
“You are first, and foremost, a kind soul.”

Greg wriggled in his arms and kissed him. “You are too, Myc.”  
“Less freely expressible, perhaps.”  
“Yeah, that’s fair.” Greg leant his head on Mycroft’s chest. “I wonder if subconsciously I knew the reasons why, and that’s why I didn’t get angry.”  
“Regardless, it doesn’t change the fact that you are a good man.”

Greg snuggled closer and whispered, “I’m just glad he’s back.”  
“He valued your reaction more than he let on,” Mycroft said quietly. “He was deeply upset that John wasn’t happy to see him.”  
“Yeah. That’d be tough. John’s got a killer of a temper, mind. He’d a good mate and all, but there are times I wonder why he did medicine first before joining the army.”  
“He’s a skilled physician under pressure.”  
“That’s not what I meant,” Greg grunted. He then sighed. “I’m just glad it’s over now.”

Mycroft swallowed uncomfortably. _Should I tell him? He won’t remember, but he’ll be upset during our time together._  
“What is it?”  
“Hm?” Mycroft shook his head as he returned from his thoughts.  
“You. You’ve gone tense, just as I said it was over.”

Groaning, Mycroft sat up and forced Greg to sit up as well. “There are worse days to come,” he uttered, the tone of defeat clear in his voice.  
Greg frowned, and looked at him as if trying to see if he were serious. “Worse how?”  
“I…” Mycroft whimpered, and looked away. He felt Greg’s hand on his shoulder, supporting him. Looking back at Greg, his lip trembled.  
“Oh, love.” Greg pulled him into a hug just as the tears fell. “Hey, it’s alright.”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes. Sherlock will be shot this year, but he’ll survive it. Miraculously,” he added under his breath.  
“God,” Greg groaned. “Poor bugger. Who shoots him?”  
“Mary Watson.”  
“Fuck, no. Really?”  
“Mhm.” Mycroft sagged. “But that’s only just the beginning of it all. Next year–”  
“Don’t think of it, love. You can’t do anything to change it, so just focus on me, here, now.”

Mycroft kissed him. His Gregory was very wise. “Maybe you could help me forget?” he asked, his tone playful.  
Greg laughed. “Insatiable Mr Holmes. It’s almost lunch time.”  
“Is that a challenge?”

Greg looked at him with a peculiar expression; it was like bewilderment mixed with joy. “How, even?”  
Mycroft honestly had no idea, he just felt the spark of playfulness. He just waited for Greg to decide.  
“Come on.” Gregory stood and pulled Mycroft up onto his feet. “I have some chocolate mousse I made for Christmas. It’s got cinnamon in it. I think we could put it to good use.”

~

“All refreshed?”

Mycroft stretched as he pulled his clothes on. “Yes, thank you. As much as I appreciate your tongue all over me, it does leave me feeling sticky.”  
“Yeah I get that. Still wish I had a shower large enough for the both of us.”

Mycroft left his jacket slung over the kitchen chair. He still wore his waistcoat, which he continued to refuse washing in Gregory’s machine. All of his other clothes were freshly cleaned and dried, though, and it was a nice feeling. He didn’t even care if it was destroying the trousers. It wasn’t like he’d be needing them again.

“Plans for dinner?” Mycroft asked. They’d fallen into the habit of having dinner before nine, since Gregory usually ate before Mycroft arrived now.  
“Honestly? I don’t know,” Gregory said, shrugging. “I’m still a bit full, actually.”  
“You did eat a lot of mousse.”  
“So did you.”

Mycroft chuckled and nodded. “Perhaps something light?”  
“Hmmm.” Greg frowned and put his hands on his hips. “I don’t have much to make a salad with. There’s only so much you can do with a head of lettuce and a single carrot.”  
“I think you’ll find there’s a lot more you can do with a carrot than you imagine,” Mycroft joked, causing Greg to burst out laughing.  
“When did you get so filthy?”  
“Completely your influence.”

Greg kissed him. “I like it.”  
“I’m glad.” Mycroft smiled fondly against Greg. “You have made me a better man.”  
“Awh,” Greg exhaled, beaming. “I just gave you the love you deserve.”  
Mycroft held him close and kissed him again. “It’s made all the difference in my life.”

He held Gregory close and rested his cheek upon the silver head. He was happy; he’d been happy for a long time now. It was only two weeks by his experience, sure, but it was half of Greg’s life, and so it felt infinitely longer.

It was strange, but he was glad for Tempest’s mistake. He knew he’d be devastated when it was over, but right then, he was just glad to have experienced sharing a life with the man of his dreams. His life would have been empty and incomplete without it. His opinion on the saying ‘it’s better to have loved and lost than never have loved at all’ was now so markedly different to what it would have been a mere month ago.

“You’re thinking.”  
“Always, darling.”  
“I meant thinking about emotional stuff, Myc.”  
“Yes.”  
“Well, don’t. Emotions are to be felt, not reasoned. You’ll only upset yourself.”

He huffed in amusement. Gregory knew how his mind worked well. He broke their embrace and used the back of his fingers to gently brush his love’s cheek. “You are so stunningly beautiful.”  
“Not handsome?” Greg joked.  
“That too, yes, but I speak of the beauty of your soul. It radiates out of you.”

Gregory just looked at him for a moment. His eyes, shimmering with extra water, stared back into his own. “And so does yours, now that you let people see it.”


	24. December 24, 2014 - Greg

Greg grasped Mycroft in a hug the moment he appeared. He’d actually just been standing in the middle of the kitchen, debating whether or not to have a beer or something more festive, like brandy, when he was hit with the memories.

All of the loneliness vanished, filled instead with devotion and love for the man looking slightly startled.  
“Myc,” he murmured into the man’s suit.  
“Gregory.”  
“I’m glad you’re here.”  
“As am I.”

Greg released him and kissed him deeply. He broke the kiss, but spent a moment nuzzling into his long neck.  
“I’m suddenly glad that I wasn’t invited along to the big Christmas do with Sherlock.”

Greg had been feeling a bit put out that this year, Sherlock had invited John and Mary up to his parent’s house to spend Christmas with Mr and Mrs Holmes as well as Mycroft. It wasn’t that he expected to be invited, but usually Sherlock hosts a Christmas party and he’d always been wanted there. And, of course, Mycroft was going to be there. It didn’t matter now, since he had the man himself there with him.

He then noticed that Mycroft had gone tense in his arms. “Myc? What is it?”

Mycroft swallowed and looked at his feet, anxious. Greg kept his hands running up and down Mycroft’s arms supportively.  
“It… It starts tomorrow. Christmas day.”  
“What starts, Myc?”  
“The year of hell that I told you about. Sherlock. He…” Mycroft sniffled and drew strength to talk. “He murders a man.”

“What?” Greg exclaimed in disbelief. “No, seriously? Who?”  
“A man called Magnussen. He’s a vile creature, but he’s smart. I have tried to slip him up, but he manages to evade me every time.”

Greg frowned and pulled Mycroft over to sit on the couch. He looked at him, concerned, but had to ask what was on his mind. “So, it’s better that he’s dead?”  
Mycroft huffed. “That’s not a reason for murder.”  
“No, no, I know that better than most,” Greg said, grabbing Mycroft’s hand. “But it’s Sherlock, so surely there was a reason?”  
“Yes.” Mycroft gripped Greg’s hand tighter. “He was protecting John. Unfortunately, he was seen by many witnesses. Magnussen had power over even me, with his knowledge of Eurus.” He took a deep breath. “But that is still only how it starts.”

“There’s more?”  
“Yes. Sherlock will elect to go on a suicide mission for MI6 instead of remain in prison. No, love, it’s ok, he doesn’t actually go,” Mycroft said quickly after seeing the shock on Greg’s face. “Moriarty’s face appears on every screen in the country, and the whole situation goes to hell. John’s wife is killed, John blames Sherlock, Sherlock almost kills himself with drugs to help John, then Eurus tries to kill the three of us in Baker street, and then we go to Sherrinford.”

Greg just stared as he processed what he’d heard. Mycroft apparently could only get it out if he spoke quickly, resulting in an overload of information.  
“Fuck,” Greg exclaimed bluntly. Mycroft just nodded. Greg hung his head and, incredulously, chuckled. “Why can’t people just be nice?”

Mycroft didn’t respond, merely lay back down on the couch. Greg cuddled back up against him. _Oh love, you’ve been through so much. Just focus on me now_. He kissed him and stroked his cheek.  
“It’s just us now, ok? Like last year, you can’t do anything about what’s happening. Sure, tomorrow all of that will happen but it’s in your past.”

“Not enough,” Mycroft spoke as he winced. He then took a deep breath and relaxed against Greg’s body. “But you’re right.”  
“Course I am,” Greg chuckled. “And don’t go thinking about it being the last night we have together either.”  
“Gregory,” Mycroft whined. “How can I not?”

Greg ran his fingers along Mycroft’s cheek. “I mean, you can, but like, not upsettingly.”  
“And how could I even do that?” Mycroft asked, incredulous.  
Greg pressed a kiss to his lips. “By being happy that you’ve had this, instead of being sad it’s over.”

Mycroft looked away, and the sheer distress on his face broke Greg’s heart a little. A little whimper escaped his lips when he tried to speak again. “Myc,” he uttered. “Hey. No. You can be sad when it actually is over. I’m not telling you not to do that. I mean don’t make it bad now.”  
“Bad? I-I’m sorry-”  
“No,” Greg said, cutting him off. “No, that was my poor choice of words. Just have a song stuck in my head, I guess.”

Mycroft looked at him quizzically. Greg smiled warmly and cleared his throat.  
“Hey Myc,” he sung, altering the lyrics slightly. “Don’t make it bad. Take a sad day, and make it better. Remember to let me into your heart, and then you can start to make it better.”

“That was very good,” Mycroft whispered. “The Beatles. Did you think of it just then?”  
“The changes? Yeah.”  
“You are wonderful, my love.”

Greg kissed him again. “As are you,” he breathed, before kissing him again. 

~

He’d just caught his breath when Mycroft jerked and cried out.  
“What is it, love?” he asked, leaning up on his elbow on the mattress.  
“This year’s decoration. We haven’t gotten another one yet. The last-”  
“Myc,” he said, warningly. His partner closed his mouth and nodded silently. “It’s ok. I’m sure there’s something around Christmassy that we could put with the things,” he continued.

Mycroft stood. He was all legs and grace, and it still managed to set Greg’s heart ablaze. He just watched as the man walked about the room, eyes scanning. Greg grinned, leaning back suggestively and spreading out.  
“See anything you like, gorgeous?”

Mycroft turned to him and flushed. “Gregory,” he mumbled, and Greg loved how he was badly attempting to conceal his interest. “I thought you’d be satiated for at least an hour.”  
“Not when you’re sauntering about in front of me, you big tease.”  
“I am not _sauntering_ ,” Mycroft retorted in the most flamboyant manner Greg had heard from him.  
Greg laughed. “Whatever you say, dearest.”

He watched as Mycroft continued to move around, flapping his arms about. “You’re not making it better, love,” he chuckled. “Don’t stop, though. I love it when you act all extra gay.”  
“How does one behave _extra_ gay?” Mycroft looked at him as if he’d grown another head. “Never mind. You’re distracting me.”  
“Ditto.”

Mycroft dramatically rolled his eyes and then shot a grin his direction. Greg chuckled.  
“How about a stocking?”  
Greg cocked his head and hummed. “Yeah, but it’d have to be a small one to fit in the shoebox.”  
“I’m glad you intent to keep them.”  
“I’ll try and make sure I do, but you know, can’t exactly promise.”

He watched as Mycroft picked up a sock. It was one of the doughnut socks that he’d bought him.  
“This is a small stocking,” he stated, holding it out for Greg to see.  
“Yep. One I got you. But love, you’ll only have one sock, then.”  
“It doesn’t matter.” Mycroft shrugged. “We could use one of yours, if you prefer.”

Greg tried to remember what socks he had. “Uh, I don’t have any red ones, but I have a grey one I think; we could sew a piece of cord or something to the heel to make it more stocking-like?”  
“Yes, that sounds good. More festive, at least, if only slightly.”

~

The stocking was hanging up with the rest of the decorations. They’d amassed quite the collection over the years, and it warmed Greg’s heart looking at them. Each one represented something special; memories that were so cherished, yet soon to be forgotten.

“Should we put something in the stocking?”  
“Hm, I doubt much would fit, nor that string hold much,” Mycroft responded from across the room as he hung up the fairy lights.  
“Yeah, you’re right. Probably only a bit of paper’d be light enough.”

Mycroft turned the lights on and turned to face him, his face serious. Greg tilted his head, silently asking what was wrong.  
“Do you have a pen and paper?”  
“Yeah, somewhere. Why?”  
“I want to finish off the decoration.”  
It clicked in Greg’s mind. “Oh. Yeah, I’ll get you something for a note.”

Finding some in the kitchen, he brought it over to Mycroft. He watched, hoping that he’d be permitted to see whatever message Mycroft had for him.  
“Here. Slip it into the sock.”  
“Can I read it first?” he asked as he took the note.  
“Of course.”

He opened it to see Mycroft’s cursive handwriting.

_The time together for most of your life has been the time of mine. Thank you._

His heart clenched and tears formed in his eyes. “Myc, that’s…” He couldn’t find a word to describe it. _Beautiful, but sad?_ “Why didn’t you put your name on it?”  
“Timelines,” Mycroft responded with a sigh. “You won’t remember me, and so an ambiguous message won’t rouse suspicion.”  
“I don’t want our time together to be left ambiguous though,” Greg pouted.

He slipped the note inside the sock hanging at the window. Greg then cuddled Mycroft close. “I was going to marry you, when I met you outside of Christmas, remember?”  
“Yes,” Mycroft said, his voice resounding in his chest as Greg’s ear was pressed against it. “But then things changed.”  
“Not how I feel about you.”

Mycroft continued to hold him. The contact was nice, the conversation comfortable despite being of such intense subject matter, and yet there was still a blanket of sorrow shrouding him. Greg breathed deeply, inhaling everything that was Mycroft.

“Doesn’t matter, really. I’ve still spent most of my life with you, as you said.”  
“It might have been brief for me, but I’ve spent the most important part of my life with you.”  
“But… you’ve had so many other important things in your life, Myc. You’re the British Government, and you’ve had Sherlock to watch over.”  
“And yet it wasn’t until being with you that I felt like I was living. For me, at the very least.”

Greg cleared his throat, the emotions threatening to spill over. “Dance with me?”  
“Always, darling.”

He put some of their traditional music on, that they listened to most Christmases, and returned to embrace Mycroft. He swayed his hips, stepping slowly, and encouraged Mycroft to do the same. It was nice, being held close, and having his head on Mycroft’s shoulder.

They danced until the music ended. Greg ended it with a slow, sensuous kiss and suggestions of more along those lines in the bedroom.

~

Greg served Mycroft pancakes he’d just made. He tried something different and made Christmas pancakes. He was in the mood to experiment after an especially pleasing night.

Thankfully, Mycroft seemed to thoroughly enjoy them. He’d used a Dutch speculaas spice mix and some brown sugar. He’d suggested putting honey on them instead of maple syrup, and in his opinion, it worked a treat – Mycroft, of course, elected to have some of both.

He noticed that Mycroft was eying the time, and so Greg decided he’d do what he could to keep him occupied. Given everything that was about to go down at the Holmes household, as well as for him personally, it was understandable that the man was distracted.

“Want to go for a walk?” Greg asked as he put the dishes in the sink.  
“Certainly. Any place in particular?”  
“Hm,” Greg hummed as he thought. There wasn’t anywhere special they could go. They’d been to the nearby park often, and while they could return there, he’d like something different. “Perhaps we could take the tube to Hyde Park?”

Mycroft tensed at the mention of public transport. Greg knew Mycroft was uncomfortable in crowds, and got very anxious when strangers were close to him. He hoped that there wouldn’t be enough people on the tube to cause his partner to have a panic attack, but he would prefer it over taking a taxi. It was mean of him, he knew, but he wanted Mycroft to be focused on the immediate anxiety of public transport instead of his mind wandering back to worse things.

“If that’s what you wish,” Mycroft answered, measuredly. Greg was sure to grin enthusiastically in response.

~

The tube had enough people on it to distract Mycroft, but not upset him. Greg was feeling rather pleased with himself.

Their walk was rather enjoyable. They spent hours wandering and talking about anything and everything, without the pressure of their impending end of relationship.

Greg told stories from his childhood, snippets of his cases, and talked of his experiences with Sherlock. Mycroft did the same, and Greg found it all fascinating. It was rare for Mycroft to talk about his childhood, and he even spoke of enjoyable things instead of just the bare backbones of his difficult past.

Mycroft talked of having birthday parties as a boy, of having a friend in primary school with whom he’d play with, of enjoying creating artworks in secret, and of his first foray into a relationship. It was amazing to see how unguarded the usually reserved man was.

Greg, in turn, told all he could to Mycroft about his life. He knew that it was likely Mycroft knew most of it already, but they had an easy back-and-forth conversation going and so Greg continued to discuss details.

They decided to stop and have lunch out, since it was past midday and they were still walking and chatting. It wasn’t a fancy meal, but it was companionable. The little café was intimate but not overly busy, and had simple wholesome meals. Greg was sure to get a blueberry muffin for Mycroft.

~

Evening descended and Mycroft was sitting on a chair he’d dragged over into the lounge to look at the fairy lights. Greg didn’t quite understand the man’s fascination with them, but he loved seeing the warm glow of the little lights illuminate his ginger hair and pale skin.

_I’d love a photo of that_ , he thought. It then occurred to him that he hadn’t taken a photo of Mycroft on Christmas at all before. _How the fuck did I manage that?_

He pulled out his phone and snapped a picture before Mycroft noticed. He grinned, seeing the far-reaching gaze of Mycroft’s blue eyes dotted with the little lights, like stars.  
“Gregory?”  
“Look at me, love,” Greg said, steading his phone. “And now look like you’re happy.”  
“I am happy.”  
“No, you _look_ like you’re stuck in a lecture hall for a four hour seminar on statistical variations within criminal data sets. Miserable and stressed.”  
“Experience, I take it?”

Greg hummed a yes and nodded, his eyes blowing wide. It _had_ been a gruelling seminar. His reaction had succeeded in making Mycroft break out into a genuine loving smile, which he captured on his phone.

“Perfect.”  
“You realise you’re not going to have any idea why that’s on your phone, come morning.”  
“Yep. Don’t care. Knowing me, and I do since I am me, I’ll be confused but I won’t say anything and secretly keep looking at it.”

Mycroft still smiled at him, but his eyes grew sad. Greg walked over and kissed him to try help.  
“Why are you sitting here, dear?”  
“Just thinking, I suppose,” Mycroft answered. “The lights help focus my mind when it threatens to explode out of control in a thousand directions.”  
“A bit like staring at a fire, then?” Greg offered.  
“Exactly, yes.”

Greg took Mycroft’s hand. “Come on. We’ve still got time. I want to make love to you.”  
“I’d like that, yes.”


	25. December 24, 2015 - Mycroft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has followed this story from the start, and those of you who came in during. I have adored all the lovely comments you've given me. It's helped motivate me to keep writing throughout December and get this posted on schedule! I love you all.

The warmth disappeared and the cold lashed against his body. He kept his eyes closed, missing the press of lips against his own. He trembled, and tears flowed down his cheeks. He didn’t bother trying to keep it in. He let the choking feeling in his throat open up to a loud sob.

Mycroft bowed his head as he cried. His chest felt like it was ripped apart. He’d tried to anticipate what it was going to be like, and thought that he’d be able to handle it. He thought that he’d feel longing, and defeat, but then face what was to come with dignity.

Instead he was in unbelievable agony. He couldn’t understand it. Pain and sorrow took over completely, blocking out all other thoughts. He fell to his knees and continued to cry, putting a hand over his face.

After a minute, the tears stopped coming. He still felt terrible, but it was like the emotions had burst out of him in a vicious rampage, and now they’d left him a broken hollow shell. He just remained on his knees, tear-stained and slobbery, staring out over the Thames.

“Mycroft.”

He closed his eyes and sighed. “Tempest.”  
“So here we are. 2015. It’s been quite the few weeks for you, hasn’t it?”  
“To say the least.”

He couldn’t find it in himself to say much. He hurt to his core, longing for Gregory, knowing that everything that they had was gone. He was now facing the same world he’d left; just as alone and despondent.

“So, have you learnt anything from this?” she asked him, sounding almost patronising. “Saw how you can feel like living again?”

He still didn’t look at her. “What does it matter? It’s not like the choice is mine anymore, is it?”  
“Uh, yeah, it is,” Tempest reminded him. “You’re supposed to be the smartest man on the planet, and you honestly are asking me if you’re alive or not?”

Mycroft whimpered. He’d expected that it’d be over, but now he was faced with making the choice all over again? How could he choose to stay knowing everything he’d lost now?

“You made it worse,” he said quietly. He then frowned, and looked up at Tempest. “I was ready to kill myself and you made it _worse_.” His voice was strained. He found he was panting.

To her credit, Tempest looked pained. She pursed her lips as she looked at him. “I was trying to make you see there is something you want to live for still. You can still have that life, with Greg, you know.”

Mycroft shook his head. He stood up, and clenched his hands around the cold metal railing. “No. That life is gone. How could I try have a relationship with him, knowing he’ll never remember? I-I just feel done, Tempest. This has all been… just a dream. A nightmare or a good one, I’m not entirely sure anymore, but a dream none the less.”  
“Mycroft–”  
“No!” he snapped. “It… he can’t remember. I can. I know what I’m without. A-and I feel everything else. The depression, the loneliness… everything that brought me is still here, Tempest. I don’t… how can I… after this…” He trailed off, unable to get his thoughts straight. He felt too emotional.

He knew it was dangerous to let his heart rule his body right then; the raw emotions were very negative and blocked out his sense of consequence. He just felt so defeated after everything that had happened with his family, and then losing Gregory, that he couldn’t summon the strength to fight the emotions with reason.

“I’m sorry,” she said. Her tone had changed to concerned rather than patronising. “I did my best to help you find something to live for.”

Mycroft just looked down at the water. “I know. I don’t blame you. As terrible a guardian you have been, I know you do care, deep down.” He looked back at her and gave her a sad smile. “It was a chance, trapping me there instead of going to your superiors. If you’d asked me, I would have chosen to experience it still, I think.”

He paused, and then looked over to her. “Even though it’s ending the same as if I’d never met you, at least now I feel like I’ve lived a life to end. Enjoy your holiday with your wife.”

“Mycroft,” Tempest said, and suddenly she was beside him instead of her usual perch on the ledge. She put her hand on his shoulder. “You were ready to marry him and ‘live happily ever after’ or whatever that saying is. You know he’s in love with you even if he can’t remember you. Why not go to him?”

It was a fair point, but he just couldn’t face it. Not only did he feel bone-deep _tired_ of fighting, he didn’t want to look into those eyes and not see the Gregory who loved him, who’d made him dinners, bought him gifts, comforted him, and who’d proposed to him. He didn’t want to remember when Gregory didn’t have that privilege.

“I can’t.”  
“Mycroft, you’re depressed. You’re overwhelmed. You’re not in your right mind.”  
“I am talking to a Christmas Spirit. I think ‘right mind’ is relative,” Mycroft retorted.  
“Winter Light… oh, it’s not important,” Tempest huffed. She hung her head, and then suddenly she was sitting up on the railing again. “Just tell me one thing, Mycroft.”

Mycroft looked at her, and nodded.  
“If Greg did remember it all, if he still wanted you after all those years for him, would you still want to abandon him?”

He paused. The words ‘abandon him’ struck some distant feeling of guilt. He shook his head. Tempest stared at him, as if waiting for some epiphany that wasn’t going to happen. Eventually Mycroft tore his eyes away and looked back over the water.

“ _Mycroft stop!_ ”

His heart suddenly leapt into his throat and adrenaline surged through his body at the sound. _Gregory, that was Gregory_. He turned and saw the man himself running towards him. He could do nothing but drop his jaw.

“Don’t do this,” Greg said, stopping just a few metres away. He looked out of breath and crazed.

Mycroft remained frozen. He looked from Greg and over to Tempest, still sitting on the railing. She was smiling at him. His brain couldn’t process what was happening. Tempest winked at him, and then disappeared.

“Please, Myc, we’ll get through this. Myc… Myc…” Gregory panted, and bent over double to rest his hands on his knees.  
“Gregory.” It was all his brain was able to come up with. _You’re here. How are you here? No one knows where I am._ A small part of his heart was starting to flicker, trying to spark alive that feeling of hope again. “How did you know I was here?”  
“You told me.”

“No I-I didn’t,” he argued. _And my phone is dead; work couldn’t have tracked me even if I had said something to cause worry._

Mycroft again was struck. He started to shake, and let his head shake from side to side minutely to show he didn’t understand. Greg nodded, smiling, and took a step forward.

“It was a drizzly Christmas night, in 1998.”  
“You…” Mycroft couldn’t let himself believe it. Greg’s smile widened, and stepped close enough to touch Mycroft’s arm.  
“Yeah.” He had tears in his eyes as he nodded. “Yeah, Myc. I remember.”  
“Oh, God, Gregory…”

Mycroft burst into tears and collapsed onto Gregory, hugging him tightly. Greg held him tightly, rubbing his hand on his back like he used to do. So much still didn’t make sense to his emotion-wracked brain, but he was now excessively overflowing with joy rather than despair.

“I don’t… how? It’s only nine–”  
“I was just sitting at home, thinking of you, feeling alone and reflecting over Christmases past; how I’d been alone for so long. And then suddenly… I realised it wasn’t true. I remembered that you were there. I-I remembered, Myc, all of it. And so I came. I’ll always be here when you need me.”

Mycroft didn’t let go of Gregory. He didn’t trust himself to stay standing upright on his own, and all he wanted in the world was in his arms… why would he let go?  
“Oh, my dear husband-to-be, it’ll be alright. I’m here for you now. I’m going to help you.”  
“Y-you… still?”  
“I’ve been waiting my whole life for you, Myc. I’m going to spend every moment left I have with you.”  
“Yes,” he breathed. Fresh tears fell down his cheeks. “Yes.”

Greg stood back, and Mycroft reluctantly let him go. He watched as Greg put his hand into his coat pocket and pulled out something. He moved it between them so the streetlight illuminated what it was… a pinecone.

Mycroft took it, staring at it incredulously. He couldn’t believe it. In his mind, he was taken back to sitting with Gregory on the couch, discussing the symbolism of the pinecone.  
“A new beginning, a life worth living. A happy one,” he repeated Greg’s words from all that time ago.

Gregory nodded softly at him. He then held out his hand. Mycroft reached out and grasped it, and allowed himself to be led back home.

~

Mycroft was sat on his couch, a blanket draped over his shoulders. Gregory was sitting beside him, gently embracing him. He held a cup of hot chocolate in his hands, the heat warming his chilled fingers.

“What if this is just like the other times?” Mycroft asked into the quiet. He’d been thinking about it since they’d arrived at his house. “And you’ll forget tomorrow night?”  
“I…” Greg paused. He then spoke quietly, “I don’t know, love. It’s possible. I don’t know why that’d happen, but it doesn’t matter right now.”

He closed his eyes and let his head rest on Gregory’s shoulder.  
“You gave me quite the scare,” Greg whispered. “Were you really going to do it, if I hadn’t shown up?”

Mycroft remained quiet. He put his mug on the coffee table and then huddled back into Gregory’s arms. “I honestly don’t know,” he said. “I was feeling very distraught and impulsive, but there was still a logic battle going on.”  
“You could have come to me, even if I hadn’t remembered.”  
“I-I was afraid that’d be worse,” he whispered, hoarse. “To be faced with what I’d lost?”  
“I would have helped, Myc. I would always help you.”

Mycroft sighed. “As I said. Impulsive and not thinking clearly.”  
“I know how it is,” Greg said while rubbing Mycroft’s arm. “And I know that my being here remembering our life together isn’t going to solve everything.”  
“Gregory–”  
“No, it won’t. It’ll help, but it’s not going to be fine. You can’t expect otherwise. You need time to work through this stuff. It’s a slow process. But not one you need to do alone.”  
“You’ve helped me a lot already.”  
“Yeah but for you, it’s only been a couple of weeks. That’s not enough time to move past the post-traumatic stress or the depression that’s gripped you.”

He knew Gregory was right, but he was comforted by the thought that he wouldn’t be doing it alone.  
“Can we go to your place and get the decorations?”  
“Sure Myc.” He pressed a kiss onto his forehead. “And the fairy lights.”

~

They’d hung the decorations over the window in the lounge, all but the pinecones. Those they rested together on the mantle over the fire, surrounded by some fairy lights.

“You finally got your fireplace cuddle,” Greg chuckled.  
“It’s nice.”  
“Oh, I heartily agree.”

~

He’d almost forgotten what his bed felt like. Not that Gregory’s bed was uncomfortable, but there was always something deeply satisfying with resting in one’s own bed. It was perfected only by Gregory’s warm body entwined with his.

They made love slowly, tentatively, and sweetly. There wasn’t a rush to finish or an agenda; it was purely about the touch and enjoyment of the moment.

He wasn’t sure when they drifted off to sleep. Mycroft was cradled in Greg’s arms, the place he felt most safe in all the world.

~

Morning brought delicious smells wafting from the kitchen. Mycroft blinked awake, realising that he’d actually managed to sleep through Gregory getting out of bed. _How can I smell tasty things when there’s nothing in the house?_

“Morning my dearest!” Gregory shouted as he walked into the bedroom carrying a tray. “I got breakfast.”  
Mycroft shuffled to sit up. “How?”  
“Yeah, your place is as barren as a desert. Don’t you eat food? I had to find a bakery open on Christmas morning. I’ll tell you, it wasn’t easy.”

Mycroft looked at the tray brought in. It had two croissants, a muffin, some melted chocolate in a pot, and some brie cheese on a plate. “Gregory, you didn’t ha–”  
“Nope but I wanted to.” He handed the tray to Mycroft.

“What, you look uncomfortable,” Gregory said, standing over him.  
“It’s just, uh, crumbs…”  
Gregory laughed and took the tray. “That’s fine. Come on then, up with you. We’ll eat at the table in the kitchen.”

~

Gregory encouraged Mycroft to reach out to Sherlock, but he declined. Perhaps he would tomorrow, or when Sherlock returned to London. He had to admit that part of him was hesitant to believe that there would be a tomorrow – he had spent so long jumping from Christmas to Christmas that instinctively he still expected to appear a year later.

They went for a stroll around the house, and then took a car out to the Royal Botanical Gardens. Mycroft found he honestly didn’t mind walking through whilst holding Gregory’s hand. It was slightly rainy, and so walking through the glasshouse together was rather special.

Among the ferns, as they walked by the drizzling window, Greg leaned in and kissed him. Mycroft blushed, but grinned and kissed him back – onlookers be damned. Gregory was his, and he didn’t care who knew. _Let them be jealous_.

~

After an active afternoon and a peaceful dinner, Mycroft and Greg retired to the lounge room again. Mycroft had to admit that he was utterly terrified that nine thirteen would come and he’d open his eyes to somewhere else again. Or, more likely, that Gregory would cease to remember him.

“It’ll be alright,” Greg soothed as they sat sipping whisky. “I can tell you’re worried.”  
“I can’t help it.”  
“I know. I’m not ordering you to stop, I’m comforting you, dear. I know you’re an anxious person who tends to worry. It’s not your fault.”

Mycroft nodded his thanks. It was nice to have Gregory understand him like that. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass as he pondered how to speak his mind. “If, uh, if it turns out that you don’t remember after… you know… what do you want me to do?”  
“What do you mean?”  
“Well, you’ll be asking why you’re in my house for starters.”

Gregory ran his fingers through Mycroft’s hair. It was so soothing that he had to close his eyes and hum his enjoyment.  
“Tell me the truth,” Greg whispered. “I probably won’t believe you, but if you keep telling me honestly, then I might accept it eventually.”  
“Including the part about us?”  
“Especially the part about us, Myc,” Gregory laughed. “Hell if you just tell me that you’re in love with me, regardless of our past, I’ll still want to be with you.”

Mycroft looked down and smiled. It felt nice to be wanted.  
“I’ll probably be annoyed I couldn’t remember what it was that landed me the great and gorgeous Mycroft Holmes,” Greg continued.

Mycroft smiled and shook his head. He then kissed Greg deeply, enjoying the sensations as his tongue explored Greg’s mouth – something he’d only become accustomed to in the past few weeks, but found he rather enjoyed.

“I have an alarm set,” Mycroft announced, “on the clock over on the wall.”  
Greg looked over to where the old fashioned clock sat. He frowned in confusion. “You can set alarms on those things?”  
“Well, no, technically not.” Mycroft put his empty glass down and stood to walk over to the clock. “It chimes on the hour; however, I have set it thirteen minutes slow.”

He ghosted his hands over the mahogany frame of the old clock. Greg quietly joined him, slipping his hands around Mycroft’s waist. He leaned back instinctively into Gregory’s embrace.  
“That’s really clever,” Greg uttered into his ear. “But I should expect that from you.”  
“Not so sure anymore.”  
“No, you still are magnificently brilliant, you hear? I just don’t understand why you just didn’t set an alarm on your phone; it’d’ve been easier.”  
“It felt more appropriate,” Mycroft mused, still looking at the roman numerals of the clock face. “Both timeless and time-ful, if you understand.”

Greg nuzzled his neck, sending tingles down his spine. “It’s a good choice. Like the pinecone that first night.” Greg’s breath was hot on his skin, sending more tingles running through his body and his arms breaking out into gooseflesh. “Slightly broken, but still worthwhile. And now they’re both here, together, on the mantle.”  
“Yes.”

“How long?”  
“Another four minutes.”  
“How did you want to do this, love?”  
Mycroft leant his head back and thought. “I want to be standing. If it does happen that I’m somewhere else, standing is always better.”  
“Fine, yep, easily done. Anything else?”  
“I want to hold your hands.”  
“Just hands?”  
“Yes,” he uttered, shy. “Anything more is rather disconcerting to suddenly lose.”

Greg pulled him backwards to stand in the middle of the lounge, by the fire. He spun him around so that they were facing each other. Greg’s eyes glistened in the firelight, his skin warm and soft looking in the glow.  
“You are perfect,” he whispered, cupping Greg’s face. He ran his thumb over Greg’s cheekbone.  
“I love you, Myc.”  
“I love you too, Gregory.”

They kissed, conveying all their passion and concern through the dance of lips and tongues. Mycroft flickered his eyes to the clock. Less than a minute to go. He trembled slightly.  
“It’s time to find out.”  
“I’m right here, love.”

He closed his eyes and stood very still. Greg’s hands were firm in his own, a welcomed lifeline to his surrounds.

The clock chimed once; twice; thrice… Mycroft counted nine times.

He breathed in slowly and opened his eyes. His heart flipped the instant he saw that he was no longer staring into Gregory’s face. That adrenaline surge changed from fear to elation the next moment when he noticed that his love was still there before him, on one knee.

“Mycroft Holmes; you are the love of my life, and I have waited for this moment to come for a very long time. Will you marry me?”  
“Yes,” he exhaled. The air was sucked out of his lungs, and he then gasped for breath as the tears filled his eyes. “Yes,” he repeated, louder. “Gregory, yes.”

Greg beamed and stood up to embrace both of his cheeks and kiss him passionately. Mycroft wrapped his arms around Gregory’s waist and held him close. _He’s here, he remembers. We’re getting married. Oh how things have changed._

~

The next morning, Mycroft was more relieved than he wanted to admit to that it was Boxing Day. Christmas was finally over. Though, he didn’t consider it a nightmare or a chore anymore; where once his memories were filled with arduous family gatherings and difficulties with Sherlock, they were now overflowing with the love and happy times he spent with his Gregory.

He held onto his fiancé closely, the emotional rollercoaster still not quite having stopped. It was still almost hard to believe. He peppered kisses over Gregory’s bare shoulder as he slept. It was bliss.

The sound of something slipping under the bedroom door roused him out of his thoughts. He lifted his head up, frowning.  
“Wussat?” Greg mumbled, still sleepy.  
“Just… thought I heard something love. Sleep some more.”  
“Watchuherd?”

Mycroft chuckled and pressed a kiss to Gregory’s sleep-addled face. He really was utterly adorable looking all scruffy. “I’ll just be a second.”

He got out of bed, the groan of protest from Gregory warming his heart, and padded to the door. He saw there was a postcard laying on the floor. He frowned, bent down and picked it up, and opened the door as he stood. There was no one on the other side.

The door clicked as he closed it. He returned to bed looking at the postcard. He was relieved to see the picture on the front; there wasn’t actually an intruder in the house.  
“What you got?” Greg asked him, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.  
“It’s a postcard from Tempest.”  
“Huh. Didn’t know spirits used post.”

Joining Gregory in bed, Mycroft snuggled back into the warm embrace of his fiancé (it wasn’t going to stop giving him butterflies to think it) and looked at the card in his hand.

It was of a bright tropical beach. In the foreground was Tempest, clad in black leather as always and sporting a spiked mohawk. She was wearing knee-high leather boots, a buckled and studded mini-skirt, a torn crop top over a studded leather bra, and dark sunglasses. It was almost comical to see her in such a location.

She had her arm around another woman, her wife Stella Mycroft assumed, and made a ‘peace’ sign with her other hand. Stella wasn’t what Mycroft imagined; she was short, plump, wore thick rimmed glasses and neat, sensible clothes. She looked very bookish and reserved. He couldn’t help but chuckle at the difference. He turned over the back and read.

_Mycroft,_

_I hope you’ve found your reason to stick around. I got more attached to you than I should have, and I wanted to see you have your happy ending._

_I also want to thank you. In helping you to find a life you wanted to live, I grew myself and learnt to appreciate what I had more._

_Stella and I are enjoying ourselves here. It’s nice to experience the other seasons. I’m rather enjoying summer here – it lets me show off my ink._

_Have a good life. I hope I don’t have to see you again. You know I’ll kick your butt if I do._

_– Tempest._

He smiled fondly. He turned it back over to look at the picture and ran his thumb over the image of Tempest. _She was a good soul, and I owe her a lot_.

“Can I see?”  
Mycroft nodded and passed it over to Greg. He grinned as he read.  
“Aww,” Gregory hummed. “That’s sweet. And a perfect end to our ornament collection.”  
“End? I’d hoped we’d continue it,” Mycroft pouted.

Greg pressed a kiss to Mycroft’s lips. “We’ll get a decoration each year, love. But as a married couple, it’s a different era in our lives. We can get a tree together and get a decoration to hang on it each year until it’s covered in all sorts of things.”  
“That sounds wonderful my dear. But you know what I’m most looking forward to? Just… having an everyday life with you.”

Gregory chuckled and ran his fingers through Mycroft’s hair and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “I’m most looking forward to having a life with you every day.”

* * *

*Closing Song: [ Somewhere In My Memory ](https://open.spotify.com/track/1WA5av9UlqPNOKcaUdWbGM?si=SQraV3m9SsefAlh7AfU_vA) * 


End file.
